After Three Years
by SherlockianChild
Summary: BBC Sherlock - It's been three years since Sherlock faked his death in Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock's been hiding for the last three years, trying to get rid of all of Moriarty's men. But that changes when he receives a text from someone. Rated T...for now.
1. Chapter 1

A story by SherlockianChild.

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**Chapter 1**

"You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um," said John, talking to a grave entitled 'Sherlock Holmes'. "There were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human... human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so... there," John said, looking behind his shoulder before going up to the grave and patting it awkwardly. Still having his arm on the tombstone, John continued, "I was so alone and I owe you so much." John turned around to leave but quickly spun around and said, "Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop, just stop this." John choked out the last three sentences before he covered his hands on his face, head low, and began to sob.

Immediately, the figure disappeared and so did the surroundings where the figure had been. A man was on his bed and was breathing heavily. A nightmare? The man, from what I can deduce, is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had been sleeping peacefully before his dreams began to torment him. Sherlock had his palms on the mattress, making his upper stand. Sherlock continued to pant but covered his face with his palms. Sherlock's chestnut curls stuck onto his forehead from sweating. After a few moments and some work, Sherlock managed to control his breathing. He noticed his hair was damp and groaned, getting out from his bed.

Sherlock's PJs stuck onto his skin so he decided to take a shower. Sherlock made his way to the bathroom, new clothes in hand, and turned on the shower faucet. Water began to sprinkle down and when Sherlock was satisfied, stripped from his clothes and made his way inside. The warm water consumed his cold body so it relaxed the detective. After shampooing his hair and rinsing it out, Sherlock lingered in the shower, resting his head onto the tiled wall. The shower continued to rain down on him but he took no notice of it. His sea green eyes were cloudy as if his mind wasn't with him or if he was on drugs.

Sherlock whispered softly, "John…"

Sherlock was thinking of his dream, nightmare, whatever you'd like to call it. It has been three years. Three years since he's faked his death and led everyone to believe he was dead. Well… except for Molly and Mycroft, that is. Mycroft was fooled at first, yes, but then he figured out his brother's scheme and offered to hide Sherlock over these three years. Sherlock would've refused if it wasn't for the fact that everyone he cared about was in deep danger. He hated the fact that he had to lie to John, especially John apart from everyone else. For the last three years, Sherlock's been hiding from Moriarty's men. Not just hiding, hunting, he's been hunting them with the help of Mycroft. Sherlock's pretty sure he's gotten rid of all of them except for a few, maybe five are left. Sherlock wanted to desperately come back home but he couldn't. He still has to get rid of the enemy. Sherlock sighed as he slowly turned the faucet off.

Sherlock wrapped himself in a white towel and used another towel to dry himself off. Sherlock kept the white towel wrapped around his waist and stalked off into the bedroom where he tossed the towel he used to dry himself onto a nearby chair. Sherlock's room had nothing but a bed, a desk, a chair, a lamp, a closet, and a laptop sitting on the desk. It was a pretty dull room but then again, Sherlock rarely slept. His mind was always racing, connecting evidence together, and thinking how he should make his next move. Sherlock rarely slept because of this reason. But when he did sleep, Sherlock would always dream the same thing…John. John's last words to him burned into his skull and he could never forget it no matter how much he wished to. Those words that were filled with desire and sadness pained Sherlock deeply. He never knew that John would be greatly affected by Sherlock's death. He never knew just how much John truly cared for him until that day at the cemetery.

Sherlock wanted to march up to John and tell him it was all a lie but he couldn't. He'd risk John getting into tremendous danger. John would be risked with death. Sherlock frowned a little. He hadn't seen John in six months. That's right, six months. Just because Sherlock couldn't tell John that he was alive, didn't mean he never visited him. Sherlock had disguised himself multiple times and visited John just to see what he was up to or how he was managing. The last time Sherlock saw John, which was six months ago, John was out having dinner with some woman. Sherlock deduced that John had been seeing her before he saw John six months ago. The woman had dark brown hair and blue eyes. She was pale but a bit darker than John and somewhat taller than him too, maybe by an inch or two. Sherlock thought nothing of the woman at first since he figured that it wouldn't last. John's relationships never lasted.

Sherlock heard a beeping sound and made his way towards the laptop where he just received a message from Mycroft. Sherlock frowned. He wished Mycroft never found out he was alive. He's been pestering him ever since. Sherlock opened the message. It was plain and simple but Sherlock looked taken aback by it.

It read:

Hello, brother dear,

Did you think he would wait for you forever? I don't want to say that I told you so but I told you so.

- MH

Sherlock furrowed his brows, confused by the message. Sherlock read the message over and over again before he noticed there was an attachment. Sherlock clicked on the attachment and waited for it to open. The attachment was a picture. The picture was John, wrapping his arms around a woman. The woman, Sherlock identified, was the same woman Sherlock saw six months ago. Immediately, Sherlock deduced the picture. The woman had her arms around John's wrapped hands. John's face was taken sideways because he had just kissed the woman's cheek. The woman was grinning brightly, exposing her white teeth. Teacher, primarily in the seventh year, has a degree in psychology, and she had a white cat. Sherlock paid more attention to John; he was living with this woman because he also had traces of cat fur on him as well.

Suddenly, something caught Sherlock's attention. The woman had a ring on her left hand on her fourth finger. It was a blue diamond ring with a silver band. She was engaged…to John. Sherlock's eyes fell off the picture and read the text Mycroft had sent him again. He finally understood what Mycroft had meant. John had moved on and is getting married with this woman. Sherlock didn't know how he should feel about this. In fact, he didn't feel anything at all. All he felt was this numbness and his heart suddenly throbbed in pain. Sherlock didn't know what to make of this so he clutched his heart, his nails digging into his skin.

Sherlock realized he was in nothing but a towel so he made his way towards the closet and changed. Sherlock heard another chiming noise. Sherlock came back, putting on his white button-down shirt, and checked his computer. There was nothing. Sherlock walked towards his bed and grabbed his cell phone. It was another text message from Mycroft. Sherlock sighed and opened the message.

It read:

Have you decided yet?

- MH


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sherlock had just gotten out of the flat when he noticed a black car was parked outside. Sherlock sighed deeply, not wanting to deal with his brother at the moment. Out came Anthea, typing something on her phone.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," Anthea said, not looking up because she was still texting.

Sherlock didn't say anything to her, except he got into the black car. Anthea followed Sherlock inside the car and the car drove off. Sherlock waited patiently to see his brother. But during the car ride, all Sherlock could think about was John. John was getting married. John was happy. John had moved on. John had forgotten about him. Sherlock inhaled deeply, thinking about the last one pained him the most. Sherlock leaned against the backseat as if that would make him forget.

The car stopped abruptly and Sherlock stepped out of the car without a word. He made his way around the abandoned building, looking for Mycroft. He knew where his brother would be. His coat flapped behind him as he glided across the floor. Sherlock opened two doors and made his way inside. Once inside, Sherlock noticed a black umbrella swishing in the wind.

"Mycroft," Sherlock whispered.

The man, Mycroft, had his back facing Sherlock as he was twirling the umbrella. Mycroft was dressed in black except for his shirt, which was white. He continued to face his brother this way.

"Sherlock, how many years has it been?" Mycroft asked.

"Why would you ask me such a question if you already knew the answer to it?" Sherlock replied.

Sherlock heard his brother chuckle. His brother replied, "It was more of a rhetorical question. But you do realize the problem I am asking, right?"

Sherlock said nothing; instead he glared at his brother. "Mycroft, what do you want? You're wasting my time –"

"For what? You're going to see John, or am I wrong?" Mycroft interrupted.

Sherlock said nothing but balled his fists. He clenched his hands so hard that they started turning white.

Mycroft smiled. Mycroft finally turned around to face his brother. "I'm not wrong?" Mycroft answered, grinning at his brother. "The more damning question is why are you going to see John after all these years? A simple and harmless text message I sent? Is that why?"

Sherlock had his mouth shut. He refused to answer his brother. He just stared him down with his eyes.

Mycroft was studying his brother, seeing for anything. He walked towards Sherlock and smiled again. "Oh… I see, you're in love –"

"Mycroft! It's none of your business of why I'm going to John!" Sherlock yelled, losing control of his emotions.

"I see. Everything makes sense now, the fall, everything. You did it all for John," Mycroft whispered, walking in circles around his brother like a vulture. "You do realize that it's too late."

"What exactly is too late?" Sherlock asked.

"Don't play coy with me," Mycroft answered, stopping right in front of his brother and facing him. "You know exactly what I mean. Or…would you rather have someone tell you the undeniable truth?"

Sherlock said nothing once more. He just stared into his brother's eyes. He didn't even blink at Mycroft. This was a game, all of it. A game he didn't feel like playing.

"I'll take your silence as a yes, then," Mycroft said. "If you want me to say it, then I won't disappoint you. The reality is any hope that John will actually love you back is slim to none. You had your chance. John was yours even a year after the fall but you didn't come back. I hate to say I told you so…but…I've already said that."

Sherlock was on the backseat, waiting to go. Anthea was making her way back into the car. She noticed Mycroft and smiled slightly. She stalked towards him, phone in hand.

"Something tells me that you certainly put quite a shock in him," Anthea said.

Mycroft smiled. "You know what went on. You practically heard the conversation," he replied.

"It was hard not to. Do you think he's learned his lesson?" Anthea asked.

"I don't know but I hope I made him understand," Mycroft said, looking at the black car. "Take him."

"Where?" Anthea asked, looking innocently.

"You know where I'm talking about," Mycroft whispered.

"And the shocking continues," Anthea replied. "You're bad for being in the British government."

Sherlock was outside the flat of 221B Baker Street. It's been three years since he's been here. He missed it. He still had the key. Sherlock fumbled in his coat looking for the key. At last, he found it and opened the door. Once inside, Sherlock noticed something was different. The flat looked a bit…empty. Sherlock's eyes widened a bit as he strode upstairs. His heart was thumping wildly in his chest. Sherlock was afraid of what he might see, or rather not see.

Sherlock stared at the door before he opened it. The flat was indeed empty. There were boxes that were filled with his stuff. How he knew, it had his name on them. Sherlock didn't find John in the kitchen or living room. Sherlock made his way to John's room. Sherlock gulped hard as he opened the door. The room was empty. It was as if no one had slept there for years. Sherlock made his way inside the room. There was nothing but a bed, a desk, and a chair. Other than that, the room was completely abandoned. Sherlock explored the desk and found a note in the drawer. It was in John's handwriting. There were only four words there.

Life isn't worth living.

Sherlock's heart ached at reading the note. Had John become suicidal when Sherlock faked his death? What happened to John during these three years? Well, he's engaged that's for sure. Sherlock sighed and put the note back into the drawer. Sherlock made his way out of the living room. The flat was empty. It's been empty.

Sherlock wondered why Mrs. Hudson still hadn't rented the place out. Maybe she also thought that Sherlock would come back. Sherlock huffed and made his way to the boxes. He opened one of them and started exploring. Sherlock rummaged through one of the boxes and found his skull. Sherlock looked into the skull's empty sockets. Sherlock exhaled shakily as he stared at it. Sherlock strode towards the fireplace and placed the skull on top of it. Sherlock forced a smile but it was in vain. He was too depressed. Mycroft…was right.

John was on his way back to his apartment. He was on break and decided to eat with his fiancé. John lived in an apartment in London. John made his way inside, noticing his lover was nowhere to be found. John noticed a note on the refrigerator with his lover's handwriting.

I've gone out with the girls. I won't be back till ten at night.

~ Heather

John groaned slightly. This was the third time this week that she's left him home alone. John grabbed his coat to buy some groceries. John made his way outside, fumbling for his car keys. John accidentally bumped into someone.

"Sorry," he managed, but not taking interest in the person. John made his way into his car and drove off.

The person John had bumped into was none other than Sherlock. Sherlock was in disguise of course. He couldn't risk Moriarty's men finding him so easily. Sherlock was dressed like an old man with his back hunched over and a small white beard dangling over his chin.

John realized he forgot his wallet and groaned over his stupidity. Damn it, why did he have to be stupid? John turned the car around and made his way back home. John parked his car near his home and started walking towards it. John noticed there was a huge crowd that had formed a circle near his home. John furrowed his brows and strode closer towards the crowd. There was a fight. John rolled his eyes and was going to leave until he noticed an old man was being beat up. John looked at the scene in horror. Why would a teenager beat up an elderly man? John stopped the boy by grabbing his arm.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John demanded, glaring at the boy.

"He started insulting me!" the boy shrieked.

"That's no reason of why you should hit your elders," John scolded. "Now go before I call the police on you."

With that, John let the boy go who ran as fast as he could. The crowd applauded John who rolled his eyes at them. So much for helping, they just watched the whole bloody thing. John checked to see if the man was okay. Well… he was alive. John put his arm around the old man, who happened to be Sherlock. Quickly, John realized that the man was taller than him.

"Come on, let's go to my apartment. Don't worry, I'm a doctor," John said to the man. "Let me bandage you up, at least."

The man didn't reply but John didn't take notice of it. John helped the old man walk towards his apartment. Once inside, he helped the man sit on a couch while John went to look for his medical equipment, first aid kit. John came back and knelt before the man.

"So, why did he fight you?" John asked. "He mentioned something about you insulting him, is that true?"

Sherlock, the old man, looked at John who was tending to his cheek. John was waiting for an answer and he knew it. Sherlock coughed and deepened his voice, trying to disguise it until it sounded groggily.

"I didn't insult him. I merely told him his true quality of nature," Sherlock answered, wincing when John dabbed his cheek with alcohol.

John was silent for a moment. In that moment, John had stopped tending to the man and just locked eyes with him. For a split second, Sherlock had thought that John knew who he was. But John started chuckling and resumed tending to Sherlock's wounds.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked, curiously.

"Nothing, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. It's that you just reminded me of a friend I used to know," John answered, trying to stifle his laughter. But within a flash, John's smiled disappeared and was replaced with a frown.

Sherlock noticed John frowning. His eyes almost looked sad. John noticed that the man had been looking at him and forced a smile. But that cunning smile didn't fool Sherlock. Sherlock stared into John's eyes as if that would make the pain go away.

Sherlock said, "You miss him, don't you?"

John was taken aback by the question and replied, "I'm sorry, who?"

"Sherlock Holmes –"

"How do you know –?"

"It was all over the new. Suicide of fake genius," Sherlock replied, his voice soft.

"Well, he wasn't a fake," John whispered, anger bubbling through his body.

"How would you know?" Sherlock asked.

"I just know! And I used to live with him so I would know," John snapped back.

"That doesn't prove anything," Sherlock answered.

"No offense," John said, finishing bandaging Sherlock up, "but I believe in him. No one, not the media, people, or _you_ will prove that he ever told a lie to me."

John had finished bandaging the man up and was just about fed up with him. John had stood up again and just glared at the man.

"I've disappointed you," he replied.

John furrowed his eyes in confusion. A thought appeared to John but he quickly shook it away. John just sighed and grabbed the first aid kit.

"When you feel strong enough, you can leave," John answered, making his way to the bathroom to store the kit.

After a few minutes, John returned to the living room. He had expected the old man to have gone but he was still there. The old man was looking out the window, his back facing John.

"Earlier, you said that you believed in Sherlock Holmes no matter what anyone said. Is that how you still feel currently even after all these years?" the man asked.

John was dumbfounded by the response but managed to answer, "Of course. I will always believe in him."

"What would you say if I were to say he was alive?" the man questioned.

"I don't understand what you're asking," John replied.

"What would you say if he had disguised himself just to see you?" the man continued, disregarding John's last comment.

John had his mouth open and he scrunched his brows together. Air had left John's body, leaving him breathless. His eyes widened and he had gone slightly pale.

"I – I don't –," John stuttered, before he was interrupted.

"What would you say if…he was in this very same room with you," the man said, slowly turning around and facing John.

Immediately, John noticed that the old man wasn't whom he looked to be. The man no longer had a beard and white hair. The man standing before him had curly brown hair and icy blue green eyes. It was none other than Sherlock Holmes, his best friend who looked very much alive.

"…Sherlock," John whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

John's mouth was slightly opened, his shoulders slacked. He was motionless. He couldn't bring himself to say anything. The only thing that popped into his mind was that, that wasn't – no, can't – be Sherlock Holmes. This was one of his old nightmares that had come back to haunt him. His eyes were deceiving him, making him see what he wanted to see. No, this… just wasn't fair.

"No… You're – you're not him. Sherlock – Sherlock's…dead," John sputtered, clenching his fists.

Sherlock just gazed at John, not showing any kind of emotion. He slowly walked towards him. "How can someone be dead if they were never dead to begin with?" Sherlock asked, stopping right in front of John.

John's mind kept on conflicting itself. Why wasn't he accepting that this man could be Sherlock Holmes? He had been hurt before by people claiming to be him. John continued to look at Sherlock to see if he was an illusion. Did he drink some medicine that had gone wrong? No, he hadn't. He knew that as a fact. Then… John's eyes widened again, finally realizing and accepting it.

Sherlock had been examining John, observing his movements and trying to figure out what he was thinking. Sherlock noticed John's eyes widened and smiled deeply. The next thing Sherlock knew was that he was on the ground. What happened? He felt excruciating pain from his cheek. He touched his cheek and noticed he was bleeding. John towering over him, his face mad with anger. He saw that John's left hand was balled, his knuckles red. John had punched him!

"Why did you do that for?" Sherlock exclaimed, starting to get up and wincing as he touched his cheek.

"You asked me what I'd do if you were alive and in this room!" John exclaimed, punching Sherlock again.

"Stop! I thought you'd be happy –"

"Happy? Three bloody years, Sherlock! For three years, do you have any idea just what I went through?" John hollered, poking his finger onto Sherlock's chest.

John picked up his hand to punch Sherlock again but Sherlock quickly gripped his arms. "John! Stop trying to punch me!" Sherlock yelled, not letting go of John's wrists.

"No!" John shrieked, slamming Sherlock against a wall. "Do you – do you honestly have any idea what I went through?" John panted, his voice slightly cracking.

Sherlock's eyes softened. He exhaled deeply as he looked at John.

"No, I don't. It must've been…awful –"

"Awful? It was hell, Sherlock! Hell! Are you laughing at the pain I had to endure? Did you ever consider how I'd feel about you faking your death?" John demanded, rage seething through him.

"No! I would never do that, John –"

"Bull shit, Sherlock," John said, walking away from Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at John in disbelief. He quickly followed John and gripped his shoulder, turning him so that he could face him.

"And do you think the past three years were easy on me, do you?" Sherlock replied, looking into John's eyes. "Because they weren't."

John was silent for a few moments, his head low. He was too busy of thinking about himself that he didn't consider Sherlock's feelings. He had no idea what Sherlock went through during those three years. John shook his head and finally stared at Sherlock. They were both silent for a few moments. Both were just gazing at each other.

John finally worked up the courage and said, "Are you back…for good?"

"I don't know for sure," Sherlock sighed, hesitating on answering the question.

"Why did you come back if you aren't sure?" John asked.

Before Sherlock could answer, there was a knock on the door.

"Who –?" John began, before Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand.

Sherlock stared at the door in dislike. Had someone discovered his secret and knew he was here?

"John? Are you in there?" a woman answered.

John walked towards the door before Sherlock grabbed him again and pulled him back.

"Sherlock, relax, it's just my – my girlfriend," John whispered so that only Sherlock could hear.

"John, I don't think you understand the situation here. No one can know I'm here. My life is in grave danger," Sherlock snapped back.

John sighed deeply and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, leading him to a hazelnut door with a gilded knob.

"This is my study. Heather never comes in here," John said, opening the door for Sherlock.

"Oh, don't I feel safe," Sherlock replied sarcastically, making his way inside.

"Just stay in there and don't come out until I say so!" John whispered angrily, shutting the door in Sherlock's face.

John made his way back to the living room and opened the black door. "Heather?" he asked.

"I was knocking. Why didn't you open the door sooner?" Heather asked.

"I barely heard you, love. I was asleep," John said, rubbing his eyes to prove himself. "I read your note. Change of plans?"

"Oh, the girls are to blame," she replied, sitting on a blue armchair.

"What happened now?" John asked, not really paying attention to her anymore. John gazed down the hall where his study was.

"Karen and Sharon got into a fight so the plans had to end early," Heather answered, noticing John wasn't looking at her. "John? John!" she exclaimed.

John snapped back into reality and looked at Heather. "Hmm?" John asked, smiling at her.

"Are you paying attention to me?" she demanded.

"Of course, why would you say –?"

"Then, what did I just say?" she questioned, crossing her arms.

"You were just complaining about your friends –"

"Complaining?" she exclaimed. "Oh, so it's my fault?"

"What?" John said, furrowing his brows. "I didn't even say that –"

"But you implied it!" she yelled.

"No, I didn't!" John replied.

Suddenly, there was a loud creak. John's eyes went wide. Sherlock! That git! Heather saw John's face and made a face.

"Are you cheating on me?" she asked, sternly.

"What? No!" John exclaimed.

Heather rose to her feet and marched down the hall. John followed her, panic seething through him. Heather opened a white door and inspected the room. It was their bedroom. Heather looked in the closet, the bathroom, and under the bed.

"Heather, you're being silly!" John answered, as she left the room and headed for the bathroom.

Heather opened the bathroom door and looked through the shower curtains and in the cupboard. She looked in the medical cabinet as well. She stalked away from the room and made her way to John's study. John grabbed Heather's arm and spun her around.

"Heather, stop! There's no one here. Why would I cheat on you?" John pleaded.

"If you've got nothing to hide, then you won't mind me checking your study," she replied coldly.

"Heather, my study is my personal privacy. Please don't invade it. What about trust?" John answered hastily.

Heather rolled her eyes and pushed herself away from John. She opened the hazel door and made her way inside. John followed behind her and noticed Sherlock wasn't there. Heather inspected the room until she was satisfied.

"No one's here," she whispered.

"I told you!" John exclaimed. "Heather, this has got to stop. We need to trust each other on these things. Why would I cheat on you? I'm marrying you, doesn't that mean something?"

"I know, I know," she sighed. "I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry. Can you ever forgive me?" she asked, looking at him.

John looked at Heather and smiled slightly. "I can't stay mad at you forever. Of course, I forgive you," John said.

Heather smiled and hugged John tightly. John frowned a little. Was he just imagining this whole thing? Was Sherlock never really there? John clenched his fists. But he shook it off and focused on Heather. Heather went to make some tea for them in the kitchen. John was going to follow her when he noticed something was off in his study. His laptop was on his desk. He had placed it on the fireplace. John's body suddenly felt warm. He grinned as he made his way towards the laptop. He sat on his chair and opened his laptop. There was a word document opened. It was a message from him. It was a message from Sherlock!

It read:

Sorry, I left because something told me not to intrude on your….conversation. Meet me at the entrance of Hyde Park as soon as you're ready. And by ready, I mean now. – SH

John chuckled softly and erased the message, along with the document itself. John rose from his seat and made his way out of the room.

"Heather, I've got to go," he said, taking his coat.

"What? Why?" she asked.

"My break's over. I've got to be heading back to work," John replied, not lying but not being completely honest either.

Heather nodded in understanding and kissed John goodbye.

John parked his car and walked towards the entrance of Hyde Park. Immediately, he felt a hand on him and was spun around.

"Sher –"

"Honestly, John. It's as if you actually want me to be killed," Sherlock said, in the same disguise as before.

John smiled and replied, "Sorry."

"No, you're not," Sherlock answered, marching towards a secluded area.

John stumbled to catch up but managed. Sherlock had stopped abruptly so he smacked into him. John apologized again and waited for Sherlock to say something. Sherlock said nothing but he got rid of the wig and beard. He shook his head quickly.

"You have no idea how much that itches," Sherlock said.

John couldn't help but grin like a schoolgirl. Sherlock noticed and tilted his head but managed to smirk at him.

"What? Why are you smiling like that? Is there something on me?" Sherlock replied.

"No, no, no, it's that. It's been a long time since I've seen you. You haven't changed at all," John answered.

"John, if I knew you were going to be like this, I would've come sooner," Sherlock said.

"It's been confirmed, you haven't changed at all," John said.

Sherlock smiled and ignored the matter. "So… Heather," Sherlock replied.

"What about her?" John asked.

"Are you really going to marry her?" Sherlock questioned.

"Yeah, why, is there a problem?" John demanded.

"John, don't take this personally but I don't think she's for you," Sherlock said.

"What? Are you serious? How do you expect me not to take this personally? Sherlock, I love her –"

"You do? Well you should receive a medal because she's a pain in the arse," he replied.

"Sherlock, I'm the one marrying her not you!" John snapped back.

"John, you're making a mistake –"

"Sherlock, is that why you came back, to ruin my engagement with Heather?" John questioned angrily.

"What! No, I barely met her today and she's already a pain. She doesn't trust you and do you really want to marry someone like that? I didn't come back for that reason at all!" Sherlock answered, lying only slightly.

"Then why did you come back?" John exclaimed, ignoring Sherlock's first couple of statements.

"Because – because – err. Do you really want to hear me say it?" Sherlock asked desperately.

"It is if you ever want to see me again," John demanded, crossing his arms.

"John, it's for that very same reason why I came back!" Sherlock said.

"What?" John sputtered, confused.

"John… I – I – I missed you all right!" Sherlock exclaimed.

John's heart leapt. He looked at Sherlock and smiled slightly. "You missed me?" John asked.

"Don't make me repeat myself," Sherlock said.

John chuckled lightly. "Sherlock, I've missed you too. You were my best friend, you still are, and it was difficult not seeing you," John whispered.

Sherlock slowly smiled. "John, are you busy today?" Sherlock asked.

"I've got to go to work, why?" John replied.

"Call sick or anything, we've got to go," Sherlock answered.

"Go? Go where?" John questioned.

"We're going on a case, of course. What else?" Sherlock replied, turning his coat collar up. "Are you coming or not?"

"Oh, god yes," John exclaimed, happily.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

John was driving his car, while listening to Sherlock who was giving him directions. Sherlock was in the backseat, hiding himself from the public eye. He was slouching so that the window wouldn't show his image to anyone outside. John noticed this and started thinking just what kind of trouble Sherlock was in. Well, it can't be that serious if he came to him at last. But then again, he's still in that silly disguise. But…Sherlock did like being dramatic. It was silent for a while. Sherlock had stopped giving John directions, so they must've been near.

"How…?" John began, but couldn't think of a way to phrase his question.

Sherlock had looked at John the moment he spoke, his eyes widening a little. But when John had stopped and didn't continue, he had resumed looking out the window.

"How did you manage to hide yourself for all these years?" John asked awkwardly.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, unsure just how much he should tell John of his little "adventures".

John sighed deeply, knowing he won't get an answer to his question. John wanted to know what Sherlock's been through. He wanted to know if he's been safe. Well, of course he's safe, he's here.

"I was at Molly's for a while but people started to become suspicious so I had to leave. I, then, started to travel around Europe, staying at random places. Eventually, Mycroft found out my little secret and wanted to help me. I refused and tried to escape from my brother's clutches. But as you can see, that didn't work out so easily," Sherlock replied.

"You were at Molly's? She knew?" John exclaimed, looking at Sherlock through the rearview mirror.

Sherlock groaned in frustration, clearly not wanting to answer anymore of John's questions. "Yes, of course Molly knew. She's the one who helped me fake my death," Sherlock answered.

John was taken aback for a few moments. Bloody hell, Molly knew all along and played him like a fool! She sobbed when she heard Sherlock was dead. She even examined his body! John was a little upset, feeling betrayed.

"How did Mycroft find you out?" John continued.

Sherlock groaned even more. "John, I really don't feel like answering any questions right now –"

"Why? I'm curious to know –"

"John, I'm going to be here all day and night. So quit bothering me!" Sherlock hollered angrily.

John was dumbfounded by Sherlock's sudden outburst. John just shook his head angrily and continued to drive straight. Sherlock knew he had hit a nerve. Great, he had just been reunited with John for two hours and thirteen minutes and already John's angry at him. Sherlock knew he had to make things right if he was going to gain John's trust again or just John in general.

"Listen, John," Sherlock began. "John… Will you look at me, please?"

John scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, I'm driving –"

"Since when has that stopped you?" Sherlock snapped back.

John groaned and abruptly parked the car. Sherlock jumped a bit from the suddenness. John unbuckled his seatbelt and turned around to look at Sherlock. He gave him a face.

"Well?" John demanded, waiting for Sherlock to begin.

Sherlock calmed himself down and breathed deeply. "John, I didn't mean to…lash out at you just now. John, I know you want to understand what happened to me during those three years, but I'm tired and all I want to do now is be with – is sleep," Sherlock replied, quickly changing the ending.

"Is that all?" John sighed angrily.

Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes at John but thought now was not the time. "No, actually it's not. I promise you I will tell you everything…just not now. We've got to do more pressing matters at the moment. I don't have time to lollygag like I did before. My life's on the line. When this is over, I will answer all of your questions. I promise. I'm not going anywhere, not again," Sherlock said, looking into John's eyes.

John didn't say anything because there was nothing more need to be said. He just looked at Sherlock one more time before he turned around and started the car, driving once more. There wasn't any more talk unless Sherlock was telling John to turn left or right. Finally, Sherlock told him to stop and they were outside an abandoned building.

"This is where you lived?" John asked.

"Yes, problem?" Sherlock replied, getting out of the car.

"No, no, just expected a lavish mansion since Mycroft was hiding you, that's all," John mocked.

"Was that supposed to be a joke?" Sherlock said, making his way inside the building.

"You can call it whatever you want," John continued, playing with the taller man.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, smiling, as he walked towards his room. John followed behind him, making sure he didn't get lost. John inspected the room, analyzing it with his eyes. The room was practically empty.

"Nice room," John joked.

"I move to different locations every month so I find it pointless to have unnecessary materials," Sherlock replied, taking off the wig and shaking his head. "That itches so much!"

John smiled but frowned again. "Every month? That must've been painful, leaving your stuff behind," he answered.

"Not really, all I ever cared about was back at the flat," Sherlock said, not realizing what he had just said.

"Yeah, must've missed your skull?" John joked again, not catching on to what Sherlock meant.

Sherlock sighed deeply. It was good that John overlooked some things. In fact, if John really wanted to, he could've figured it out since he had all the pieces. Sherlock tried to divert attention from the subject and replied, "John, I'm going to change…stay here."

John was looking at the room but heard what Sherlock had said. "All right," John said.

Sherlock made his way towards the closet and grabbed some clothes, marching his way out of the room. John was extremely bored. Everything in Sherlock's room was boring and nothing like him. His room, back at Baker Street, was different than this. But then again, John remembered what Sherlock had told him. Out of curiosity, John looked around Sherlock's room. Suddenly, there was a chiming noise. It was coming from Sherlock's laptop. John didn't want to be noisy, but then again, Sherlock had always taken _his_ laptop and invaded _his_ privacy.

John walked over to the desk and opened the laptop. It was a message to him from Mycroft. The message read:

Oh, brother, what have you done now? You do realize he'll be in danger now.

- MH

John furrowed his brows in confusion. What was Mycroft talking about? Who's in danger? Finally, John realized who Mycroft was talking about. He was talking about him. Great, now he's in danger. Just how much trouble is Sherlock in? Well, Sherlock did say it involved his life. John was going to close the message when he noticed two previous messages. They were the only messages there besides the recent one, and they were both dated today. One look couldn't hurt, he thought. John clicked the middle message and it read:

Have you decided yet?

- MH

Decided? Decided what? John scrunched his brows together to the point that it looked like he had a unibrow. John was going to close the laptop when he noticed the oldest message. John thought he was already invading Sherlock's privacy by reading the first two messages. Then again, they were both harmless messages and the oldest message would make more sense of the second message. John clicked the message and it read:

Did you think he would wait for you forever? I don't want to say that I told you so but I told you so.

- MH

John's face went white. Okay, there was no way that Mycroft was talking about him now. Who is this person that Mycroft was talking about? Why was this making him so flustered? John noticed there was an attachment. He clicked on it unconsciously and an image appeared. John was astonished to see himself. It was a picture of Heather and him. This was when he proposed to her two fortnights ago. John felt…weird. This was somewhat awkward. Did Mycroft force Sherlock to come out of his hiding place using him as leverage? If so, why did Sherlock agree? It's just a picture. It's meaningless. So why did Sherlock come to him?

John shook his head and closed the laptop, rising to his feet. John walked around in circles, taking the information in. This was making his body ache all over. His mind was numb and on fire. What was this all supposed to mean? Surely, it couldn't mean that Sherlock was –

Sherlock had walked into the room, wig in hand. He smiled, upon seeing John. Quickly, his smiled disappeared and his wig dropped to the floor. John noticed that and furrowed his brows, confused.

John began, "Sherlock, what –"

Sherlock was staring at a red dot, on John's forehead. He noticed more dots appearing into the room. Not again, he thought. Sherlock, without hesitations, sprinted towards John and knocked him down. John was taken aback by the sudden action and air left him as he crashed onto the ground.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell was that for?" John exclaimed.

Before Sherlock could reply, there was immediate gunfire. The windows shattered as bullets came crashing through the building. Sherlock's laptop was shot multiple times, damaging and breaking it. Sherlock was covering John as the bullets came through. Sherlock grabbed John's arm and twisted it.

"Come on, we've got to go… Now!" Sherlock ordered, crawling onto the floor.

"What's going on?" John demanded, following Sherlock.

"Later," Sherlock replied, finally standing up.

John stood up but Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him closer to him. Just in time as well, since bullets came towards John's directions if Sherlock hadn't grabbed him. Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and tugged on it.

"Let's go," Sherlock answered, running down the stairs.

John followed but the bullets seemed to be following them. Finally, Sherlock and John made it to an exit. Heavy gunfire splashed onto the door. Sherlock barely dodged one of the bullets. Damn it, they had to get out of there now. Suddenly, a black car appeared in front of them, bullets piercing it but no damage being done to it.

"Mycroft," Sherlock whispered. "Come on, John!"

Sherlock and John quickly marched into the car, trails of bullets following them. They both got in and the car drove off. Bullets had stopped hitting the car and it was silent. John and Sherlock were both panting from the rush.

John finally said, "What the hell was that?"

"They know," Sherlock panted heavily. "They know I'm alive and now I'm in real danger."

"Who knows, Moriarty's men?" John asked.

"Who else?" Sherlock snapped back, wincing.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"Nothing, I'm fine," Sherlock replied.

John noticed Sherlock's shirt was damp near his left shoulder. John looked at his shoulder then back at Sherlock. "Sherlock, no, you're not fine. You're hurt," John said.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock answered.

"I've got to treat it," John said.

"No, I said I'm –"

"I don't care what you say. It's not a suggestion, Sherlock, it's an order," John replied, looking at Sherlock.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

John had a knife soaking in a bowl filled with alcohol. He had a fire going on and was waiting to sterilize the knife. He looked at Sherlock, who was in the midst of unbuttoning his shirt off. For some reason, John couldn't take his eyes off of Sherlock. He didn't understand why because he's seen Sherlock undressed from the top before. But something about Sherlock had distracted him. John noticed that Sherlock's skin was pale except for his shoulder that was oozing out blood. Right! He had to remove that bullet out of him.

"Sit over there," John said, pointing to a metal table.

Mycroft had ordered Anthea to bring them here. He was in the process of coming himself. John had nicely asked Anthea to stay outside so that he could remove the bullet quietly and undisturbed. Sherlock nodded and made his way to the table, sitting on top of it. He was squeezing his shoulder, wincing as he did so. His breathing was labored.

John noticed this and frowned slightly. "Just try to calm down," John answered. "I'm going to get it out. It'll be all right."

"Calm down? I have a bullet in my bloody shoulder!" Sherlock exclaimed, losing his temper. "Get it out now, John!"

"Sherlock, Sherlock, you're going to have to trust me on this. Okay? Please," John pleaded, trying to calm down his friend.

"What do you know? It hurts!" Sherlock snapped back, in pain.

John looked at Sherlock in disbelief. "What do I know?" John replied. "Sherlock, I don't know if you forgot this but I got shot in the shoulder too!"

Sherlock was silent, his head low. "Sorry," he mumbled. Sherlock had forgotten that John had been shot in the shoulder during war. "I'm sorry," he repeated again.

"Stop apologizing," John said. "I don't blame you. I know how the pain felt."

Sherlock nodded in agreement and waited for John to start. John took the knife from the alcohol and put it into the flames, waiting for it to be ready.

"Is it going to hurt?" Sherlock asked, seeing the fire.

"I'm not going to lie to you," John began. "It will. It burns like a bloody mother – Err, would you like to bite onto something?"

"Bite onto something?" Sherlock questioned.

"To lessen the pain," John said.

"Sure," Sherlock said.

John nodded and grabbed a clean white cloth and handed it to Sherlock. "Bite down onto this," he ordered, taking the knife out of the fire.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and let go of his shoulder and took the cloth. He placed it in between his mouth and waited for John to begin.

John waited for the knife to cool off for a few moments and inhaled. John walked towards Sherlock and moved so that he was facing his left shoulder. "Okay, now, you're going to feel a slight –

Sherlock had bitten the cloth as hard as he could, as he felt the effects of the fire and alcohol on his skin. He moved slightly but John had grasped him.

"Please, don't move," John said. "I know it hurts, I know. Just bear with it."

Sherlock tried to stay as still as he could possibly be. John dug into Sherlock's skin once more, this time with better ease. Sherlock groaned deeply and spat out the cloth, its effects useless. He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. He winced as John further dug into his skin.

"So, how did you get shot?" John asked, curiosity overcoming him.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, trying to speak from the pain. "I – When you were going to be shot the first time, near the window," Sherlock managed.

"That's when the shooting began," John said.

"I know," Sherlock winced, gripping the edges of the table.

"Thank you," John replied, stopping and looking at Sherlock.

"For what?" Sherlock questioned, furrowing his brows at John.

"You saved my life," John said, smiling slightly at him.

Sherlock nodded. John resumed back to his shoulder. Goosebumps began to form on Sherlock's skin as he felt John's breath on him. Sherlock trembled slightly but John had placed his arm on his back, as if reassuring him. Sherlock looked away, unable to look at John.

"Are you almost done?" Sherlock asked, the pain being too much.

"Almost, just trying to get it out," John said, twisting his arm.

Sherlock winced but repressed himself from making any sudden movements.

"It's stuck in there pretty good," John said. "You're lucky it didn't hit anything vital but a through and through shot would've been better. Whoever pulled the trigger is a pretty good shooter. Do you know anybody that could've shot like that?"

"Besides you, only one other person," Sherlock replied.

"Should I be flattered?" John teased.

"You should be. He's one of the greatest hitman that I know about," Sherlock said.

"Who is he?" John asked, curiously.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock answered, gasping as he felt the knife come out of his skin abruptly.

"There, bullet's out," John said, holding the bullet in his finger, showing it to Sherlock.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, starting to get off.

"Oh, no. Sit!" John ordered.

Sherlock sat back down again. "What?" he asked, looking at John.

"I still need to stop the bleeding and bandage you up," he replied, putting the bullet beside Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't say anything but sat there, waiting for John to treat him. John grabbed a roll of medical bandages and cut it with some scissors. He slammed the bandage with the heel of his hand, applying pressure. Sherlock grunted and winced as he felt the pressure. John kept his hand on Sherlock's shoulder for a while, still adding pressure.

"Does it hurt?" John asked, after a while.

"No, it's so fun that I might shoot myself after this," Sherlock replied sarcastically, his voice straining.

"Don't make jokes, Sherlock. It doesn't work for you," John answered, still holding Sherlock's shoulder.

"Fine, saving you doesn't work for me either," Sherlock said.

John looked at Sherlock and sighed. "Sherlock, look, I'm sorry. I was joking. I – I didn't mean it," he answered.

"Forget it, it was low for me bringing it up in the first place," Sherlock replied.

"Thank you –"

"You've already said it. You don't have to say it again," Sherlock said.

"No, I appreciate it. Sherlock, if you hadn't done anything, hell, I would've been shot in the head if we're going by approximations," John mumbled, trying to form his words.

John began to wrap the bandage around Sherlock's shoulder, but he still squeezed his shoulder. Sherlock looked at John when he replied, who looked at him in return. They were both gazing at each other for a while. It seemed that they both don't understand the meaning of personal space. John loosened his grip on Sherlock's shoulder, his hand moving across to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's eyes trailed John's movements for a moment and then looked back up to look at him again.

"Sherlock…?" John asked, a thought appearing into his mind.

"Yes?" he replied, almost immediately.

"Who's Sebastian Moran?" John questioned, removing his hand from Sherlock. "I know he's a sniper and all but –"

Sherlock frowned, losing the warmth from John's hand on his chest. "Sebastian Moran is one of Moriarty's men. He and probably two others are still alive and are out to get me. He is the first one to question my death among Moriarty's men. You can say that he was one of Moriarty's favorites and the feelings were mutual. So…it's personal, in other words," Sherlock explained, looking at John as if begging him to touch him again.

"How did you discover him?" John asked, clearly intrigued.

"John, you're not safe," Sherlock said, realizing the situation.

"What?" John questioned, taken aback by the suddenness.

"You're not safe with me. Go…go back home," Sherlock said, stumbling around the last few words.

John looked at Sherlock in disbelief. He shook his head quickly. "No, Sherlock," he replied.

"John, you don't understand. You're in extreme danger. I should've never gone out to get you if I knew it was going to result like this," Sherlock explained.

"No, Sherlock," John said, repeating himself.

"John, I'm saying it because it's the truth. You're in danger. You're life is at stake and you're getting married so –"

"No!" John exclaimed, gripping both of Sherlock's shoulders. "No more, Sherlock. No more hiding, no more running, no more pretending!"

Sherlock was dumbfounded so he remained silent. He looked into John's eyes and he could see…the pain. Sherlock bit his lip.

"John, you don't understand," Sherlock began, his lip quivering slightly.

"No, Sherlock, you don't seem to understand! I am sticking with you until the very end of this. You're going to stop hiding and pretending from me. I am on board with you. I have been since I first saw you today. Sherlock, I – I don't want to lose you again!" John explained.

Sherlock sighed deeply and looked at John, who looked determined.

"Okay, okay," he whispered, softly. "But you have to listen to everything I tell you to do, you hear me?"

John just stared at Sherlock and furrowed his brows.

"If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to shoot, you shoot. If…I tell you to abandon me, you abandon me," Sherlock ordered.

"No, absolutely not," John replied. "I'm not going to abandon you. I haven't done so before, so why should I start now?"

Sherlock just looked at John, his eyes lowering. Sherlock turned his head to avoid his gaze that became so hard to look at. John sighed and turned Sherlock's chin to face him with his two fingers. Sherlock looked into John's eyes.

Once more again, they were both staring into each other's eyes. Each wanting to say something but no sound left their lips.

At last Sherlock managed to say, "John…"

But that was all Sherlock said because John had wrapped his arms around his neck and embraced him. Sherlock was taken aback by this.

"I know, it looks wrong and you don't care for things like this but…I've missed you so much!" John exclaimed, his chin resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock smiled slightly, his heart throbbing. He, then, couldn't control his emotions, tears started to stream down his face. He hugged John back, rubbing his back. Sherlock suppressed a gasp, his smile broadening.

"I'm sorry that I put you through all this," Sherlock apologized. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry –"

"I – it's – it's okay," John whispered, wiping his own tears while still holding Sherlock.

They held each other for a few moments, the other not wanting to let go. It had been years since they had last seen each other. They didn't want to let go of each other in fear that it was an illusion.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Another black car emerged near the abandoned building. It stopped moving and parked. A man opened the door; his face had a look of concern as he closed the door. He made his way towards the entrance of the building. He met Anthea near the doorway. Anthea smiled gently as she saw him.

"How are they?" Mycroft asked seriously.

Anthea looked into Mycroft's eyes and replied, "They're both fine. Sherlock's got a little wound, but he's fine."

"A little wound?" Mycroft questioned, his face full of concern again.

"Sherlock was…shot," Anthea began, before Mycroft tried to make his way in. "I know you're worried but John is in the middle of taking the bullet out!"

Mycroft stopped and sighed deeply. "How long have they been in there?" he asked, taking his umbrella from Anthea's hands.

Anthea hesitated before answering, "Twenty minutes."

"The bullet should be out of him by now," Mycroft said, pushing his way inside.

Anthea sighed and let Mycroft in, staying outside. As Mycroft opened the doors dramatically, he noticed both John and Sherlock, who both looked taken aback. He noticed his brother was naked from the waist up but he had a bandaged on his shoulder. Mycroft waited for the door to close before he made his way towards them. He noticed their facial expression and furrowed his brows, confused. Their faces were both flushed.

"You both look as if you've seen a monster," Mycroft announced.

"Obviously," Sherlock stated plainly.

John couldn't help but chuckle at this. Sherlock smiled, hearing John chuckling. Mycroft just glared at his brother. He couldn't believe he was worried for him. Mycroft shook his head slightly, and then looked back at them. Why were their faces flushed as if they had something to hide? Mycroft observed them both closely. He got nothing much from his brother since he was undressed from the waist up, so he turned his attention to John.

John furrowed his brows, wondering why Mycroft was being so silent. Mycroft noticed that John's shirt creases were off. Mycroft had seen how creases looked when doctors operated on people and they didn't look like that. Well, at least not anymore. He looked at his brother then back at John and smiled. Sherlock's face fumed immediately, knowing his brother knew.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" he snapped back, crossing his arms.

Mycroft just smirked and shook his head slightly. "Oh brother, what have you gotten yourself into?" he asked rhetorically.

Sherlock just stared at Mycroft. He begged in his head that Mycroft wouldn't come out and say it.

"Now I have to get you out of this mess," Mycroft continued.

"I never asked for your help –"

"But you obviously need it," Mycroft said, looking at his brother.

Sherlock didn't say anything.

Mycroft turned to look at John. "Have you taken the bullet out of him?" he asked, nicely.

John knew that Mycroft knew the answer. Come on, just look at Sherlock's shoulder! It's been bandaged. But John repressed the urge to make a snarky comment. John just nodded at Mycroft. Then, a thought occurred to him.

"You knew Sherlock was alive and you didn't tell me," John said, looking at Mycroft angrily.

Mycroft just stared at John with a bored face. "Sherlock told me not to tell you," Mycroft answered.

John chuckled, not buying it. "Bull shit and you know it!" John exclaimed, angrily. "Since when do you listen to your brother, Mycroft? You could've told me but you chose not to!"

Mycroft just sighed, rolling his eyes at John. "Now is not the time to be talking about this," Mycroft replied.

"Now is not the time?" John questioned. "We have enough time –"

"We do," Mycroft interrupted, "but not him."

John turned his attention to Sherlock who wouldn't meet his eyes. John sighed sadly, hurt. He nodded his head quickly as if he understood clearly.

"All right," he said. "All right."

Mycroft and Sherlock were both silent, but looking at John. They were both waiting for him to compose himself. Sherlock fought the urge to tug on John's sleeve, so he just clutched onto the table. He was still sitting on the table, not wanting to disobey John's orders.

"What do you want me to do?" John asked, looking at Mycroft.

Mycroft began, "I want you to –"

"Don't!" Sherlock interrupted.

"– go home," he finished, looking at John.

John stared at Mycroft and replied, "No –"

"It's not whether you want to or not, John," Mycroft announced.

"I'm not leaving," John said, crossing his arms and glaring at Mycroft.

It was silent once more. Mycroft and John were staring at each other, both not blinking. Their eyes looked like they were fighting it out. Their eyes locked perfectly as if static was about to hit one another. Sherlock could feel the tension but remained quiet. Finally, Mycroft looked away, leaving a smirk on John's face. Mycroft sighed deeply, knowing there wasn't any other choice.

"Okay, but if anything happens to you, I'm no getting blamed," Mycroft announced.

John continued to smile. He turned his attention back to Sherlock. "Sorry," he mumbled. "You can dress now."

Sherlock nodded and got off the table, grabbing his shirt from the counter. He carefully put his wounded arm through the sleeve, trying not to hurt it more. After that was done, he easily slipped his other arm in the remaining sleeve. He slowly began to button up his shirt.

John couldn't help but look at Sherlock, completely oblivious that Mycroft was right in front of him. There was something about him that he just couldn't turn away from. Mycroft noticed John was staring at Sherlock. He made it look so obvious too! Even though John was pretending to dump the alcohol, Mycroft knew he was glancing at his brother. Mycroft smiled, not smirked, smiled.

"John," Mycroft said, trying to get his attention.

John turned around and faced Mycroft again. "Yeah?" he answered.

"You have my permission," he replied.

John furrowed his brows, obviously confused. "Permission? Permission for what?" he questioned.

"Take it for whatever you think it means," Mycroft answered, smirking.

Sherlock was flushing once more, understanding what his brother had meant. John noticed Sherlock was red and came towards him.

"Are you okay?" he asked, putting the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock's skin flushed even more, feeling the touch of John's hand. He noticed Mycroft was looking at him, smirking. Sherlock sighed shakily, removing John's hand.

"Of course I'm fine," he answered. "What now, Mycroft?"

Mycroft wanted to continue to tease his younger brother but he knew there wasn't much time. He looked at Sherlock and said, "I believe the snipers should be here in a couple of minutes."

John was stunned. "But I thought we lost them."

"We did," Mycroft replied. "But these people are determined to kill Sherlock."

"So what now?" John asked.

"A diversion," Mycroft announced simply.

"Get down!" Sherlock exclaimed, grabbing John.

Everyone slammed against the ground as bullets came crashing through the building. Sherlock and John were huddled together behind a metal desk.

"Where's your diversion now?" Sherlock hollered at Mycroft.

"Brother, dear, do you honestly think I take you two just anywhere?" he replied.

"What?" Sherlock questioned.

"Trust me!" Mycroft exclaimed.

The snipers kept on shooting the building at random directions. Anthea was nowhere to be seen. The bullets continued to hail through. Suddenly, the bullets ceased and the snipers waited. There came a screeching noise from within, causing unrest to the snipers. Finally, two black cars zoomed out of the building, breaking the doors open. The snipers were taken aback by the suddenness. They grabbed their guns and pointed them towards the cars' directions. The cars went into two separate directions. The snipers each grabbed their weapons and went into their own cars, following the two cars.

It turned out that Anthea was driving the car that John and Sherlock were in. John gripped onto the seat, blood rushing throughout his body. The car was driving frantically around the streets. The back window was broken by a bullet. Sherlock grabbed John once more and pushed him onto the ground. More bullets came crashing through.

"Do something!" Sherlock exclaimed, covering John.

"Sherlock, you're not supposed to be straining your shoulder," John protested.

"John, I don't know if you realize this but we're in the middle of a shoot out," Sherlock replied. "Anthea!"

"Hold on!" she exclaimed, flooring the vehicle.

Sherlock fell on top of John; they were both stumbling onto each other. They were trapped in each other's clutches. John groaned as he felt Sherlock on top of him.

"Get off of me!" he demanded, trying to push him off.

"I'm stuck!" Sherlock snapped back.

Anthea saw a red light and two cars about to cross each other. She smiled devilishly and floored the gas pedal. She barely had enough time to whiz pass through the cars. The car that was following them had to stop abruptly to avoid getting hit. Anthea continued to make several twists and turns until she stopped the car abruptly. She opened the door and forced Sherlock and John out. They both stumbled onto the ground, lying on the ground.

"You're on your own for now," Anthea said, driving off.

John tried to stand but stumbled onto Sherlock, falling onto him. Sherlock groaned deeply, clearly in pain.

"I'm so sorry!" John apologized, trying to get off of Sherlock.

Sherlock grabbed John and forced him to continue to lie on top of him. "Are you okay?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm fine," John said, looking at Sherlock. "I'm more worried about you."

"I've done better," Sherlock replied, looking into John's eyes.

They were both staring at each other for a while, taking in the other's presence. John leaned forward, the gap closing between the two. Their lips were just inches apart. John could feel Sherlock's breath on him. John looked at Sherlock's lips, then back at Sherlock. Sherlock was silent but continued to gaze at John. Before anything more could happen, John's phone chirped. He got off of Sherlock and rose from the ground. He answered the phone, but he continued to look at Sherlock, who had stood up from the ground as well.

"Hello?" John asked. "Heather, hey, what's wrong? No, I'm just at…work," John said, his eyes locked with Sherlock's. John just wanted to hang up the phone and continue to focus on Sherlock, but he knew he couldn't. "I'm going to go out with friends later on. No, I don't know when I'll be back but I'll call you. Okay, bye," John answered, ending the call.

John sighed deeply. "So what now?" he asked Sherlock.

"I need to hide," he said.

"Then you can come over to my place. I'm sure Heather will understand if I just –"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "I want to go back to _our_ flat."

John looked at Sherlock for a few moments and said, "Okay, let's go."

"Let's?" Sherlock questioned. "What about Heather?"

John grunted a little in annoyance. "I want to help you, Sherlock. Heather's fine by herself. It wouldn't make any difference. Come on, let's go," John whispered, smiling at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled slightly and fixed his coat and scarf. He made his way across with John and lightly nudged his shoulder.

"Umm, Sherlock?" John asked, out of impulse.

Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned around to face John. "Yes, John?" he said.

"Err, where are we?" John stammered, looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned, slightly disappointed. He took his phone out, using his GPS. "We're in Wasdale," Sherlock said, furrowing his brows. "Mycroft was really trying to get me away."

"Only because he cares about you," John replied. "We all do."

Sherlock stopped walking and turned around, facing John. Sherlock looked at John longingly. He just wanted to attack John right now but it'd ruin everything between them both. Sherlock was going to open his mouth to say something but closed it again. He sighed sadly and resumed walking, John following him closely behind.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

John and Sherlock were sitting on the floor of 221B, laughing and snickering like little children. Despite the glooming rain outside that was pattering against the walls of the flat. There were boxes, which had been taped up and closed, opened, some of its contents dumped on the ground. John took out a photo album from one of the boxes, sitting on the ground once more beside Sherlock.

"Put that away!" Sherlock exclaimed, trying to take the album from John.

"Why? Is there something in here besides pictures? Porn?" John teased, moving away from Sherlock.

Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes at John. Sherlock stumbled on top of John, trying to get the photo album from him. Sherlock was laughing and so was John. Sherlock looked into John's eyes, his smile disappearing. All he wanted to do was kiss him. Sherlock traced John's lips with his thumb. John's smile quickly vanished and he stared into Sherlock's eyes. They were like this for a while as if begging the other to make the first move, but none was taken. Sherlock got off of John and looked away, trying to cover his face from John.

John was on his back when Sherlock got off of him. He sat up and looked at Sherlock, wondering if he was all right.

"You – ugh – you can look through it if you want," Sherlock said. "They're just pictures of me when I was a kid. Nothing of importance."

John chuckled. "Well, let's see how the infamous consulting detective looked like when he was a child," John answered.

"Infamous?" Sherlock questioned, raising an eyebrow.

John shook his head, ignoring Sherlock. He flipped through the photo album looking at several pictures of Sherlock. "You know, you were pretty cute when you were a kid," John said.

"John, if I were you, I'd stop calling children 'cute' unless you want to be marked as a pedophile," Sherlock replied, smirking a little.

John looked at Sherlock and nudged his shoulder. Sherlock winced slightly, rubbing his shoulder. "Lucky it wasn't the shoulder that was shot," John said.

Sherlock's lips curled up into a smirk. He just continued to look at John, who was flipping through the album. John laughed when he saw a picture of Sherlock, dressed as a pirate, and poking at Mycroft with a stick.

"Mycroft really was fat," John replied, giggling.

Sherlock smiled and nodded, still looking at John. John noticed this and flushed a little, looking back at the album. Out of impulse, Sherlock took the photo album from John's hands. John looked at Sherlock a bit confused.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"John…do you remember how I said I deleted the solar system out of my mind?" Sherlock said quickly, realizing what he had done.

John smiled and nodded. "How can I forget?" John replied.

"Well, I've taken the liberty to – to learn about the solar system," Sherlock said.

"Really?" John said, surprised. "How come?"

"Who knows if I'll ever need it again for a case," Sherlock replied.

John nodded, agreeing with Sherlock.

"What else have you done during these last three years?" he asked.

"Hiding and hunting mostly," Sherlock said. "But unlike me, you've gotten yourself engaged."

John smiled faintly. "I guess," John replied.

Sherlock frowned a little, furrowing his brows. He observed John's behavior, his smile that disappeared slightly, his voice that went almost silent, and his lack of looking at him. Sherlock knew. Sherlock continued to look at John, who noticed Sherlock was looking at him. John felt uncomfortable with Sherlock's piercing metamorphic eyes staring at him, almost as if he was looking right through him.

"What?" John asked sharply, deeply annoyed.

"I have no right to look at you?" Sherlock replied.

John was silent, sighing. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm just being paranoid."

Sherlock nodded and rose to his feet.

"Where are you going?" John inquired.

"I'm going to make some tea. Do you want some?" Sherlock offered.

John had his mouth agape, shocked by what he had just heard.

"What?" Sherlock questioned, tilting his head slightly.

"Nothing, you just never make tea for me," John replied.

"Yes, I have –"

"You drugged my coffee," John stated plainly.

"Do you want me to make you some tea or not?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yes, that'd be nice," John answered. "Thanks."

Sherlock nodded and made his way towards the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, surprised to see that nothing was spoiled. Mrs. Hudson had been cleaning and restocking it. Sherlock's face softened, sighing deeply. Sherlock grabbed two cups and placed it on the table, filling them both with warm water.

John was seeing Sherlock make the tea, paranoid that he might drug it. A thought occurred to him. The messages that Mycroft had sent Sherlock today, what did they mean? John looked at Sherlock briefly before he pondered over this again. John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock but closed it again, not sure how to phrase it. Sherlock would find out he was snooping through his personal matters.

"Son of a –"

"Sherlock?" John exclaimed, rising to his feet.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, wincing a little.

John walked towards Sherlock, leaving the photo album on the ground. He was in front of Sherlock, who was rubbing his hand.

"No, you're not fine," John answered. "What happened?"

"I burned my hand," Sherlock replied, letting John take his hand.

John stopped himself from laughing, knowing it would upset Sherlock. John took Sherlock's hand, seeing a piece of red patches on his pale skin. John nodded and opened a cabinet, grabbing a first aid kit. He opened it and had the gauze ready. He tugged on Sherlock's hand, leading him to the sink. John ran cool water on Sherlock's hand.

"Just stay like that for a few minutes, I'll finish making the tea," John answered, smiling slightly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and replied, "I could've died you know."

John chuckled softly, hearing this. Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at his own stupidity. John finished making the teas, placing them on the counter. John got out a couple of biscuits and placed them on a plate. Sherlock had been looking at John. John looked at Sherlock and smiled. He grabbed one of the cups of tea and made his way towards Sherlock.

"Hope you don't burn your tongue," John teased.

"Oh ho, very funny indeed," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes at John while still running his hand in water.

"Open," John ordered, offering Sherlock some tea.

Sherlock flushed slightly but obeyed opening his mouth, letting John slip the tea in his mouth. Sherlock softly sipped on the tea, staring into John's eyes. Sherlock pulled away and turned off the water. John placed his tea on the counter once more. John turned around once more looking at Sherlock. Sherlock was drying his hand with a towel, dabbing it gently. He looked in John's direction when he was done. They were both staring at each other for a few moments, nothing but silence. They were inches apart from each other but nothing was said or done.

It seemed like Mother Nature was fed up with these two just gazing at each other because thunder roared out of nowhere, causing John to jump forward. John rammed against Sherlock, knocking him against the sink. Sherlock groaned from the pain, but he wrapped his arms around John.

"It's all right, John," Sherlock said, soothingly. "It's just thunder."

John didn't hear him; instead he just stared at him. Sherlock tightened his grip on John's waist, pulling him closer to him. John sighed softly, feeling safe. Sherlock looked into John's eyes, both staring at each other. They could feel the other's breath, wrapping and caressing each other. Bearing it no longer, they both leaned in, their lips inches apart.

But, sadly, there came a knock on the door. Sherlock immediately let John go and stumbled away from him, hiding.

"John?" said a voice.

"Mrs. Hudson?" John called out.

"Dear, what are you doing in there?" she asked.

"It's just Mrs. Hudson," John whispered so that only Sherlock could hear.

Sherlock shook his head. "No one can know," Sherlock whispered back, hiding in the bathroom.

John groaned, shaking his head. He made his way towards the door and opened it. He smiled when he saw Mrs. Hudson. He hugged her tightly.

"Mrs. Hudson," he whispered happily.

"John!" she said, hugging him back. "It's been years since I've seen you. How have you been?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I just couldn't stay here anymore," John said. "Come in."

Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind her, sitting on the couch. John sat next to her. "I've been fine, Mrs. Hudson, thanks for asking. I'm engaged actually."

"Really? Who's the lucky lady…or boy?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Lady, Mrs. Hudson," John said. "Her name's Heather."

"You've got to bring her over sometime," Mrs. Hudson said.

"I will," John answered. "So how have you been?" he asked.

Mrs. Hudson looked sad. "I've been…fine," she answered. "Nothing's really changed."

John sighed softly, "Mrs. Hudson, I just want to apologize for leaving you like that."

"It's all right, honestly. I understand you couldn't be here after… Well, you know," she said.

John sighed and nodded. He desperately wanted to tell Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock was actually alive, but he didn't want to risk Sherlock's life. After a few moments of chatter, Mrs. Hudson got up to leave. John told her he was going to spend some time here, which made her smile.

She breathed deeply and asked, "John… do you still have those dreams?"

"What dreams?" he asked curiously.

"Don't you remember? You always had dreams about Sherlock –"

"Mrs. Hudson!" John said, his voice pitching a little high. "I'm really tired."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and bid him goodnight. Sherlock was flushing brightly. John had dreams about him? Sherlock wondered what they were about. Were they pleasant dreams or nightmares? John closed the door behind Mrs. Hudson, his face deeply red.

Sherlock sighed in relief, coming inside the living room. He was smiling from what he had heard, but he hid the smile when he saw John. He didn't want John to know he overheard.

"I'm – ugh – I'm going to sleep," John stammered.

Sherlock nodded and continued to sip on his tea while John went upstairs. Sherlock watched John go upstairs, frowning slightly. John slumped onto his bed, feeling completely embarrassed. He prayed to God that Sherlock didn't overhear that. John changed into his pajamas that he didn't bother to take with him. John closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep.

Sherlock was standing there, on the roof of the building of St. Barts. John was standing on the pavement, looking up at Sherlock. He heard Sherlock talking about his note. John knew how it was going to end and he wanted to move to prevent it. John willed himself to move. He finally felt his feet running, running desperately to save his friend. John was going past the stairs and opened the door to the roof. Sherlock turned around, looking at John one last time. The phone was on the ground.

"Goodbye, John," he whispered.

"No, no, no!" he exclaimed, running after Sherlock.

Sherlock was still facing John but he tipped himself backwards, falling off the building. John ran until he reached the ledge of the roof, but it was too late.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, jumping off the roof.

"No! No, no, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, sitting up on his bed.

John panted deeply, covering his face with his palms. He began to sob, feeling himself weak. He couldn't save him, not even in his dreams. John looked around, surprised to be in 221B. Wait! Today's events _did_ happen. John climbed out of bed, making his way downstairs. He heard the thunder rumbling, fear seeming through him. What if he had dreamt this? John made his way towards Sherlock's room. He hesitated on knocking. He bit his bottom lip and knocked the door.

Sherlock tossed and turned on his bed, hearing the knock. "John?" he called out, softly.

John sighed in relief.

"John?" Sherlock called out again.

John opened the door and came inside. "I – ugh – I just came to check on you," he said.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He wasn't an idiot. He knew what just happened. John just had a nightmare. Was it about the war again? He saw John turned to leave but stopped him.

"Did you have a nightmare?" he asked softly.

John didn't say anything. He looked at Sherlock and sighed silently. "Can I – can I stay here for a while?" John questioned.

"Yes, come on," Sherlock said, making some room for him and patting the empty space next to him.

John smiled faintly, making his way towards Sherlock. He sat at the edge of the bed, not wanting to bother Sherlock's personal space.

"What was your nightmare about?" Sherlock asked. "The war?"

John shook his head and looked at Sherlock. "You."

"Me?" he questioned. "What about me?"

John began, his voice trailing off, "I had a dream of that day at St. Barts Hospital where you…"

Sherlock frowned and nodded.

"But… this time, I managed to get to the rooftop before you jumped. But I was too late, you had – had –"

Sherlock had crawled towards John and wrapped his arms around him, holding him tightly. He rubbed John's back gently as if he was a fragile glass doll. John stifled himself from sobbing. Sherlock heard John was choking back tears, and unwrapped himself from him. Sherlock's hands touched John's cheeks, caressing him. Sherlock lifted John's chin up with his two fingers, looking into his eyes.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock whispered. "I promise you, no more tricks, no more pretending. Just you and me and that's all."

John cracked a desperate smile, his voice hoarse. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, hugging him once more. Sherlock let himself fall backwards, lying on his back with John on top of him. Sherlock rubbed John's back gently, whispering sweet words into his ears. Even the thundering rain couldn't ruin this moment, this gentleness, and this love.


	8. Chapter 8

Note:

I admit that this chapter isn't as interesting or exciting as the last couple of chapters. But, this chapter is key and important. Also, this chapter, you can say, is the transition to the incoming chapters. All I'm going to say is that things are going to get interesting from here on now.

Chapter 8

The sun and the moon were both up in the sky, fighting over dominance of the sky's fate. The waning moon lost the battle as the sun rapidly rose its way through the dimly lit sky. The sun peeked its way through the bedroom window of Sherlock Holmes, brightening up the room. Sherlock still had his arms wrapped around John's back, holding him close.

A soft chime came about the room, startling the younger man from his slumber. His soft curls were damp from the heat of both the sun and his companion's body, warming him. Sherlock cocked his head around, fumbling about the bedside table. Sherlock finally clutched the phone and peered at it. This wasn't his phone. It was John's. Sherlock returned his attention back to John, who was murmuring and sifting slightly, daring to wake any moment. Sherlock disconnected the caller, ending the deafening noise. It turned out that John's girlfriend was the one calling him.

Sherlock sighed softly, slipping the phone in his pocket and lying next to John once more. Sherlock resumed looking at John, who had stopped moving and was sound asleep once more. He smiled as he watched the doctor sleep peacefully. Sherlock hesitated as he moved his hand upwards, reaching for John's face. He was afraid of waking the older man. Sherlock gently and carefully touched John's cheek, stroking it softly. His smile broadened when John smiled faintly.

Sherlock felt his pocket buzzing. Sherlock furrowed his brows, repressing the urge to groan. Heather had sent John a text message. Sherlock rolled his eyes, ignoring the message. He put the phone back into his pocket. Sherlock looked at John once more, but a pang of guilt shot through him. He realized that he had to pretend that yesterday didn't happen at all. That John didn't come into his room because he had a night terror. That John didn't slip on Sherlock's bed and sleep with him, clutching onto him and begging him not to leave him. Sherlock shuddered silently as reality hit him. Yet, he should've known. After all, John was Heather's. John wasn't his the minute he met her. Sherlock averted John, his face now too painful to look at.

"Yet," Sherlock said softly. "I can't, no I _won't_, accept the fact that you love her. You look sad, almost hurt, when I mention her. If you don't love her, then why…why are you still with her? Or do I not understand the chemistry at all?" Sherlock locked eyes on John, who obviously didn't know what was going on. Sherlock sighed, knowing he'd get no response. He stroked John's hair softly, trying not to stir him.

"John," Sherlock whispered, leaning so that his mouth was on John's ear. "You have always been there for me even during my worst moments. You took care of me and stood by my side, while nobody cared to even glance at me. You looked at me differently than anybody else, and that's the best thing I could've gotten. It beats any gift that my mum or Mycroft ever gave me. John…I need you. I'm incomplete without you. John, I love you."

Sherlock was rubbing John's back now, his face close to John's. He could feel John's breath engulf him, and Sherlock took the scent in. Sherlock leaned forward, gently placing a quick kiss on his forehead. Sherlock sighed silently, propping himself up so that he was against the headboard. Sherlock continued to look at John, smiling faintly. He finally decided that he should probably do something nice for him. Sherlock rose from the bed, causing John to stir again. Sherlock stopped moving, not trying to wake John. John stopped moving, lying on his back now. Sherlock smiled faintly, hearing John mutter incoherent words. Impulsively, Sherlock bent down and softly kissed John's lips.

The kiss didn't last long. The duration was only less than three seconds. Sherlock jerked away, shocked of his actions. He blinked several times, taking in his actions. Sherlock looked like he had done something wrong, like he committed a murder.

"John," he said. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I – I didn't mean to –" Sherlock stopped himself, seeing it futile since John was asleep and was not aware. Sherlock walked out of his room, silently cursing at himself.

Sherlock marched into the kitchen, grabbing a pan and placing it on the stove. Sherlock felt his stomach twist into knots. He couldn't help but smile. As much as he regrets kissing John without his permission, Sherlock couldn't help but feel an enormous amount of excitement surging through him. Sherlock touched his lips, remembering the feeling.

John heard birds chirping wildly outside. He yawned, stretching his arms and legs. He tossed and turned about the bed, trying to go back to sleep. But he remembered last night's events and jolted up. He looked around the bed but he didn't see Sherlock. John frowned slightly, but knew he was probably taking a shower or somewhere in the flat. John was deeply content, just having one of the best dreams he's had in his entire life. He thought about the dream, grinning like an idiot. He touched his lips as he did so, a wave of flush storming across his face. John thought he should probably go and find Sherlock, seeing what he was up to now. John got out of bed, stalking out the door.

Immediately, John's sense of smell became overwhelmed by the room. He smelled something good as he sniffed the air. John noticed Sherlock and walked towards him, smiling. Sherlock heard pattering of feet and looked in John's direction, smiling immediately.

"Something smells good," John answered.

"Oh, yes, I made us some breakfast," Sherlock replied, grabbing a cup.

"You?" John said, obviously baffled.

Sherlock nodded, filling the cup with tea. He walked around the counter, giving John the cup. "Of course, who else?" Sherlock answered.

"Mrs. Hudson –"

"She can't know I'm alive, remember?" Sherlock replied, looking at Sherlock. "Why is it so surprising that I made breakfast?"

"Because yesterday when you tried making tea, you burned yourself," John replied, chuckling softly. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John, but he smiled as well. John placed the cup in between his lips and drank the tea. He took it out of his mouth, nodding slightly. "Not bad, coming from you."

Sherlock scoffed, suppressing the urge to say something back. Instead, he just rolled his eyes at John. Sherlock returned to the kitchen, pouring himself his own tea. "Set the table, will you?" he asked nicely.

John nodded, going into the kitchen and grabbing plates, forks, and knives for the both of them. John placed them on the table, ordering them properly. He grabbed napkins and set them down as well. He placed his tea on the right side of the table.

Soon, Sherlock was finished and served John some French toast. He served himself as well and sat down across from John.

"You didn't burn yourself?" John questioned, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smirk.

"Shut up," Sherlock said, looking at him.

John just chuckled, shaking his head slowly. John took a bite of the French toast. Sherlock was looking at him, waiting for his results. John nodded and smiled, giggling.

"What?" Sherlock asked, worried.

"No, no, I was just worried the food was poisoned or something. I guess I live for another day," John replied teasingly.

Sherlock shook his head at John.

"But it is good. Good job," John answered, smiling at him.

Sherlock looked at John, a genuine smile forming on his face. He nodded, taking in the compliment.

Suddenly, there came a chiming noise. John furrowed his brows, recognizing the sound of his phone. Sherlock repressed the urge to groan or make any sudden movements. John looked at Sherlock.

"Do you –? Do you have my phone?" he asked.

Sherlock knew it was too late. He nodded. "Didn't want it to wake you up," he said softly.

John smiled and nodded. "Can I have it, please?" he asked, sticking his hand out.

Sherlock dug into his pocket, handing John his phone. John thanked him and answered the phone. "Hi, Heather, how are you?" John began, his smile almost vanishing like before. "I'm sorry, love. I just saw an old friend, and I figured we needed to catch up. You remember…Eric, right? You don't. I thought I introduced you to him. Yes, I'm at his place. Why?

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you. You called me last night? How many times? Sorry Heather but I didn't get any of the calls. It was probably because of the storm last night. Heather, no, I'm not cheating on you. I really am at a friend's house. Well I could bring him over to prove it. No, don't bring your mother into this. Heather, you're being ridiculous. Fine!" John yelled, disconnecting the phone.

John sighed angrily, covering his face with his palms. He exhaled deeply. Sherlock looked at John with pity. She didn't deserve him. Just look at how she treated him! It was obvious John would never cheat on her. He loved her. Sherlock shook his head furiously.

Impulsively, he said, "Why do you put up with her? She's such a pain."

John snapped up, glaring at Sherlock. Sherlock realized what he just said and shut his mouth. Shit, he was in for it.

"I love her," John said.

"So, this is how it's like being in a relationship, then?" Sherlock replied.

"What? What do you mean?" John questioned, confused.

"So, it's normal to be in an argument based relationship?" Sherlock answered firmly.

"Oh, shut up, Sherlock!" John exclaimed angrily. "What do you know? I doubt you've ever been _in_ a relationship. How would you know?"

Sherlock was taken aback, completely hurt by John's words. He clenched his fists. Sherlock shook his head. "It's true. You want to hear me say it? I won't disappoint you. I've never been in a relationship. But I, someone who people always claim to have no heart _and_ labeled as an asexual, at least think – no, I _know_ – that this isn't what it's supposed to be like being in a relationship," Sherlock replied, rising to his feet and leaving John there.

John realized he was harsh on Sherlock and groaned softly. He followed Sherlock, trying to explain everything. "Sherlock, all couple's fight –"

"I know that all couple's fight, but the level that you fight with her. It's not right. You two aren't a good influence to each other," Sherlock answered coldly, slamming the door in John's face.

John groaned loudly, trying to open the door. But the door was locked. John knocked on the door, wanting to gain entrance inside. John slumped against the door, lying against it.

Once more again, Heather had called John. John answered it, deeply depressed. After the call, John knocked on Sherlock's door.

"Sherlock, Heather said she won't take me back unless _Eric_ shows up to clear things up," John answered softly.

The door clicked opened. Sherlock stared at John, who looked desperate. "What do you want me to do about it?" he demanded, clearly still angry.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I – I didn't mean it," John said, looking at him.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes at him, waiting for John to continue.

"Sherlock, I have to go back to her. I promised her Eric would clear things up for me. So, get your things, put on a wig, and let's go," John said.

"Hold on! Who said I was helping you?" Sherlock questioned.

"Sherlock, _please_!" John begged. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Why should I?" Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock, I'm begging you. Please, help me clear things up with Heather. Sherlock, I love her. I want her back," John answered.

There, Sherlock heard it again. The only sentence that proved John wasn't his anymore. As much as Sherlock didn't want to, Sherlock wanted John to be happy. He sighed heavily, nodding.

"Fine, but I seriously need to be disguised. John, if I get caught, I'm going to plan your death," Sherlock explained, going into his room again.

"Thank you, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, hugging Sherlock's back.

Sherlock was taken aback by the hug, shuddering. Sherlock knew this hug was nothing but gratitude, not affection. Sherlock closed his eyes, unwrapping John's hands from him and walking away from him.

John and Sherlock were in a cab, waiting to arrive to John's flat. Sherlock was dressed…to put it simply, not like Sherlock. He was wearing black jeans with a white shirt collared. He had a sandy colored wig on, covering his brown curls. The hair was flat, not curly, which was something different for him. He was wearing brown contact lenses, annoyed that John forced him to wear them. But then again, Sherlock just couldn't say no to John.

The cab stopped and they both got out, John paying the cabbie. John knocked on the door, waiting for Heather to open it. The door swung halfway opened, and Heather was surprised to see Sherlock. She forced a smile.

"Oh, you must be –"

"Eric Johnson," Sherlock muttered, glaring at her.

She nodded. Her face softened and she looked at John. "John, I'm so sorry. I didn't –"

"You obviously didn't," Sherlock interrupted, looking at her in disgust.

John elbowed Sherlock, begging him to behave. Sherlock sighed softly, looking at Heather. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm just cranky since I had to get up and go all this way just to prove that this man didn't cheat on you –"

"Sher – Shut up!" John exclaimed, realizing he almost blew his cover.

"No, John," Heather said. "It's fine, honestly. I'm sorry, Eric. To make it up to you, do you want to come up and eat some lunch?" she asked, trying to be nice.

"It's all right, Heather. Sure, why not?" Sherlock said.

Heather smiled and opened the door completely, letting them inside. She directed them to the dining room where the food was already ready.

"So, Eric, what do you do as a living?" Heather asked, curiously.

"I'm a con –" Sherlock began.

"He just got laid off at the bank," John answered.

Sherlock glared at John, wanting to punch him in the face for giving him such a ridiculous job. Sherlock exhaled and nodded. "Yes, sad really. But I just wasn't needed anymore," Sherlock said.

"Ah, that's sad. I'm sorry to hear that," Heather answered, sitting down.

Sherlock sat across from her. "So, how's teaching going for you?" he asked.

"What? How do you know I teach?" Heather asked, furrowing her brows.

"Well –"

"Because I told him, right Sherlock?" John questioned, before Sherlock could answer.

Sherlock nodded.

"If you excuse us, Heather, we're going to wash our hands to eat," John said, grabbing Sherlock's arm, forcing him to stand.

John hauled Sherlock into the bathroom, locking the door. "Sherlock, I told you to not act like yourself! If she gets suspicious, it's over," John answered.

"Don't you think I know that? I'm sorry, John. I just can't help it. It's in my nature!" Sherlock replied.

John sighed, knowing Sherlock was right. He dropped the matter, washing his hands and leaving the bathroom. After that was done, they returned to the table, each taking their seats. After lunch, Sherlock was sitting on the couch, watching telly with John and Heather. God, how could they watch this all day? It was frustrating and most of the channels, if not all, were crap.

"John, let's open up the bottle of wine," Heather said.

John nodded, rising to his feet. Sherlock stood as well, not bearing the television any longer. "I'll go too."

"No, just stay there. It won't take long," John insisted, marching into the kitchen.

Heather waited until John was gone, rising to her feet, walking towards Sherlock. "So… Eric, right?" she said.

Sherlock nodded. "What?" he asked, seeing she was staring at him.

"Nothing, just…looking," she replied.

"Why?" Sherlock questioned, furrowing his brows.

"What? I have no right at looking at people?" she said.

Heather touched Sherlock's chest, her hand brushing against him. She smirked at him, looking at him with eyes full of lust. "How about we go somewhere alone?" she asked him.

Sherlock was taken aback. Wait. Wait, was she – was she flirting with him? "And you worry that John cheats on you," Sherlock replied, angrily. "You disgust me."

"My, my, touchy aren't we?" she said, crossing her arms.

"You are going to marry the most amazing man and you dare cheat on him? Is he not enough for you? He loves you so much. Do you have any idea how much he worships you? Is his love not enough for you? You're lucky to even know John Watson. You know, some people wish to be in your place right now!" Sherlock explained, raising his voice.

Heather looked at Sherlock with a blank face. Her mouth soon curled up into a smirk. She nodded. "You obviously care for John. And _you _told me that I worry John cheats on me. Thank you, Eric, for being the final proof," she said, grabbing her coat. Heather stormed out of the flat. She closed the door behind her, leaving Sherlock puzzle.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock was sitting on his armchair, trying to act as his usual self. He soon got tired of acting and stood on his feet, walking towards his violin case. He opened the case, cradling the violin in his arms. He composed himself, tuning the violin after a while. John was in the kitchen, fixing them both teas. He was still confused as to why Heather had left their flat. Sherlock's explanation seemed valid, but it didn't sound like Heather at all. Even as they left for Baker Street, Sherlock wouldn't look or even _**breathe**_ in his direction. Did he miss something?

John sighed deeply as he placed the two cups on the tray. He put a plate of sandwich biscuits on the tray as well. He heaved the tray and placed it on the coffee table where Sherlock continued to stare away from John, now playing his violin. John smiled faintly as soon as he heard the melody commence. He had always liked it when Sherlock played the violin. The melody that was dancing around the room, the movements, which Sherlock's arms were making, and the blank facial expression Sherlock had plastered on his face, full of concentration.

John saw this and felt himself taken aback by awe. He was overwhelmed by the sensation, but he soon shook the thought away. John cleared his throated and called out for Sherlock. No answer. Sherlock was captivated in his thoughts as he poured his soul into the melody. John called Sherlock's name again. Once more again, no answer.

John walked towards Sherlock, who was swaying. John cleared his throat, calling Sherlock again. Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, looking at John as he continued to play.

"What?" he asked softly, looking at him.

"Errm, tea's ready –"

"I'll drink it later," Sherlock said, closing his eyes once more.

"But – err – there's some food for you to eat –"

"Not hungry," Sherlock replied, ignoring John now.

"Come on, Sherlock. Who knows when was the last time you ate," John said.

Then he realized it, when was the last time Sherlock ate? He's only been with him for a day and a half; so far, he's only had tea and this morning's meal. John attempted to call Sherlock again but failed miserably. When he heard no answer from his companion, he grasped the violin and pulled it away from him, snapping Sherlock back into the room. He was surprised by John's actions, furrowing his brows at him.

"Well, you've caught my attention, John. What is it?" he asked, trying to grab his violin.

John moved away from him as he saw Sherlock reach for his violin again. "Uh–uh, not until you've eaten something," John said.

Sherlock tsked at John, tilting his head slightly. "Come on, John. Please, give me my violin," he said, reaching for it again.

John batted Sherlock's hand away, smiling at him. "Not until you eat," John protested.

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "I'm not –"

"I don't care," John replied.

Sherlock groaned and made his way towards the tray, picking up a sandwich biscuit and eating it. He munched on it. When he finished, he turned and looked at John. "Now, my violin," he asked.

"No, Sherlock, you just ate –"

"You didn't mention just how much I had to eat, John," Sherlock replied.

"Eat!" John ordered, trying hard not to laugh.

Sherlock groaned deeper and lunged towards John, grasping part of his violin. John still held the violin firmly, trying to bat Sherlock's arm away.

"Let go!" John exclaimed, unable to sustain his laughter.

"Give me my violin," Sherlock snapped back.

John shook his head, and he continued to tug onto the violin. It was a tug-and-war game that none of them would win. Finally, Sherlock managed to take the violin from John, causing him to fall on top of him. They both crashed onto the couch. John was giggling like a maniac, and Sherlock couldn't help but follow suit. Sherlock stopped laughing immediately, watching John laugh his arse off. Sherlock clutched the end of John's jumper, making John stop laughing.

"Sherlock?" he asked, his smiling disappearing. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock shook his head, letting go of John's jumper.

"Come on, let's eat," he whispered.

Sherlock nodded silently, groaning quietly as he propped himself up. He gracefully took the tea John had offered him, smiling faintly. He sipped on it slowly. John watched Sherlock as he drank his tea; his lips curling up into a smile. John chewed on the sandwich biscuit quietly, enjoying the silence. They both knew that it may have been silent but an unidentified atmosphere said a different story, a story that they both didn't quite understand at the moment.

John looked at Sherlock, a thought occurring to him. "Sherlock, I'm still confused," he said.

"About what?" Sherlock answered, putting his cup down.

"Heather. I still don't get why she left," John replied.

Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortable, sifting slightly. "Errm, I told you already, John," Sherlock began. "Heather left because I said something to her that I guess what a bit harsh."

John sighed again, remembering how angry he was with Sherlock for making her leave. "Yes, but…Heather's not like that. She wouldn't leave. She'd tell me or she would've kicked you out," John explained.

"John, I told you already –"

"What exactly did you tell her?" he asked.

"I…told her that she was an alcoholic –"

"She's an alcoholic?" John questioned, furrowing his brows.

"I said, 'was'. You didn't know?" Sherlock said.

"No, I didn't. Maybe that's why she left," John answered. "She was ashamed because she was afraid to tell me."

"Probably," Sherlock muttered, angrily.

Sherlock didn't want to tell John about what had happened. He was going to, but he just couldn't bring himself to hurt John. After all, John did love Heather. But what if he wasn't the first one Heather had flirted with? What if there were springs of lovers? Sherlock shook the thought away, trying to ease any tension from his body.

"John, forget about it. I doubt she's angry at you," Sherlock said. "Just…relax."

John nodded, inhaling deeply. He soon got up and made his way towards the refrigerator. He opened it and groaned.

"Why is it that we're always running out of milk?" John questioned.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "Couldn't be me, I almost never eat."

John cocked his head as if mimicking Sherlock. "But you should at least go and buy some milk once in a while. Do you know how annoying it is going to that bloody store?" John said, badgering his companion. "Waiting in those god forsaken lines just so a machine can complicate things for me?"

Sherlock's lips curled up into a small smile and nodded his head. "I will go and buy some right now," he said, standing up.

"No! You can't, remember? You're being hunted down, right now. I'll go, but after this is over, go get the milk," John answered, getting his coat.

Sherlock chuckled softly but nodded.

John was smiling throughout the whole thing, as if he had intended for this conversation to happen. John nodded quickly, moving towards the door.

"I'll be back in about twenty minutes," John said, opening the door.

"All right," Sherlock replied.

John closed the door behind him, climbing down the stairs. He, himself, was laughing at himself. He missed this, all of this. He was waiting for himself to wake up in a cruel nightmare. But John shook the thought away, smiling brightly. He walked about the London streets. John had his hands in his pockets, cold. He could see his breath in the air. Weird, it was supposed to still be warm around this time. John turned a corner.

Immediately, John felt a hand on him. He turned around, but a piece of napkin was pressed against his mouth, stifling his shouts. He could smell it. He knew immediately what it was, but it had been too late. He had smelled enough to make him go woozy. He soon lost his vision and his balanced. The last thing he remembered was smashing against the London cement.

When John awoke, he was strapped to a chair, bounded. His vision was still blurry but it slowly made its way back to normal. He blinked several times before he could make out his surroundings. He was in a room, obviously. He cursed at himself for being so stupid just now. He was in a room, a morgue. Well, it looked like it. It was cold. There were black and white tiled floors. The walls were bluish gray and dirty. There was a long metal table where dead bodies are put to inspect the cause of death. John shivered. He nearly gagged when his sense of smell came back. It smelled of absolutely decomposition. Literally, this room had to be the _Room of Death_.

John focused on himself. He noticed he was bounded by handcuffs. His feet were bounded by cuffs as well. There was a metal strap, strapped around his waist, keeping him chained against the chair. John groaned as he tried to move. Great, just great, he was going to murder Sherlock if he ever escaped.

Suddenly, the door opened abruptly, causing John to jump in his seat. He craned his neck to see who it was.

Out of impulse, he said, "Moriarty?"

"Wrong-o," said the voice.

The voice was distorted. The voice was using some type of machine that could disguise its voice. The lights flicked on, causing John's vision to blur once more.

John gasped from the exposure. "What do you want?" he questioned.

"Something that you have," the voice replied.

"Who are you?" John asked.

"Who do you think?" the voice said.

John thought hard. He didn't know who it could be. He craned his neck to see the person but the chair had bolts onto it, preventing him from moving. "I – err – Sebastian Moran?" he answered weakly.

"Wrong, yet again. My, my expectations of you were high, but then again, you are boring," the voice replied. "Come on, John, _think_!"

"I – I don't know!" John shouted.

"Well, moving on. Since you asked a question, it's my turn to ask a question –"

"Which is?" he demanded.

"Where is he?" the voice ordered.

"Who?" John exclaimed.

"Don't play coy with me! I know you know. Where is he? Where is Sherlock Holmes?" the voice yelled.

John was taken aback by the response. How the hell did they know? It couldn't be one of the snipers, could it? "Sherlock – Sherlock's dead," John stuttered softly.

"No, he's not!" the voice yelled. "John, you can tell me and get out of this safely or you won't and you'll suffer. But, in the end, I'll still find out where he is. So…where is he?"

"I. Don't. Know!" John exclaimed. "I didn't even know he was alive until today! If I knew he was alive, I would know. He's alive. I can't believe it. But, I won't tell you even if I did know. I would rather die than sell out my friend."

There was silence for a few moments. "James, go," ordered the voice.

A man appeared in front of John, smiling evilly at him. "You have absolutely no idea how long I've been waiting to do this, Mr. Watson," James answered.

"How – how do you know who I am?" John asked, stuttering.

James slapped John across the face, his face burning immediately. "Mr. Watson, I knew you. We went to school together. I _hated_ you. I _loathed_ you. Because of you, my fiancé left me. God, you're going to wish you hadn't done that!" he explained, screaming in John's face.

"What? I honestly have no idea what you're talking about. I never dated anyone who was already in a –"

John had been punched in gut; John gasped, wincing as he felt the pain erupt. He coughed, losing his breath in that instant.

"Enough!" the voice demanded. "James, you know what you were hired to do. This isn't it."

"But –"

"Remember our deal," the voice said, through gritted teeth.

James sighed deeply, repressing the urge to punch John again.

"Ready to talk?" the voice asked.

It took a while for John to register what the voice had meant. John tried to crane his neck to see the voice, but failed once again.

"Let me go," John said. "I told you already that I didn't know Sherlock was alive until –"

"Lies!" James exclaimed, whamming John in the gut.

John's eyes nearly popped out by the amount of force that James had used. John was panting heavily, coughing hard as it began to get hard to breathe. John had his head low. He raised his head once more and looked at James.

"John, tell me where he is," the voice ordered again quietly.

"I don't know where he is. I already told you –"

There was another blow to the gut, a second blow to the face, and a tug on his hair so he could face James. John focused on regaining his breath as his face was a few inches away from James. John had no idea who this man was. John shuddered silently, seeing the rage in his eyes. John almost caved, but he soon remembered the reason. Sherlock. No, he can't afford to lose Sherlock again. Not by his hand at least.

"Well?" the voice asked.

John looked at James straight in the eyes. Without hesitation or a stutter, John said, "I don't know where he –"

James dropped John's head. He would've knocked him over had it not been for the bolted chair. John winched as his eye was attacked by James fist.

"Is that the best you can do?" he said, through breaths.

The voice chuckled softly, having heard John's reply. John heard the clanking of footsteps as they drew nearer. John still couldn't see the voice as it neared him. The next thing he knew, water was dumped on him. John's skin trembled at the freezing water.

"John, I would like you to know that if you don't tell me where Sherlock is right now, you'll be electrocuted," the voice explained softly.

John felt his stomach constrict. His heart was hammering through his ribcage. He swallowed, but it was hard as his throat had gone dry. John looked at James, who looked smug. Oh, god, this isn't a bluff.

"You're – you're bluffing," John stammered.

"Want me to give you…a sample?" the voice suggested calmly.

Without giving John a chance to reply, he felt immense pain. He gasped. His scream was hard to come as his body rattled and became distorted. John's nails dug into the chair as his body tried to lift itself from the chair. Suddenly, the pain stop and John was huffing and puffing, tears threatening to spill. He felt himself sweating already.

"Did you enjoy that?" the voice asked calmly. "It'll be more ten seconds the next time if you don't tell me where he is!"

"I – I – I don't know!" John whimpered, closing his eyes as he heard the voice tsk.

"You will, John, you will. We'll just have to give it a little more time," the voice said.

Sherlock was pacing about the flat, worried. John hadn't called him at all, and he was late. Sherlock didn't know what to do. He tried calling John, but all he got was a dial tone.

His phone buzzed and Sherlock practically rammed into the table, snatching his phone. It was a message. Sherlock furrowed his brows at the unknown number. But, out of curiosity, Sherlock opened the message. Sherlock dropped his phone. He was stunned at what he had just seen. No… the message was a lie. It had to be. It just had to be a lie.

Sherlock bent down and picked his phone up from the ground. Luckily, it wasn't broken. Sherlock looked at the message. It wasn't a message but a photo that had a message attached to it. Sherlock's hands trembled as he looked at the picture. It was John, bounded to a chair. John was bleeding from his head. He was beaten, and had a black eye coming. Sherlock shuddered as he noticed John was wet. Sherlock furrowed his brows, ignoring the picture and trying to focus on the background. But it was pointless. Just the wall was visible. Nothing. Sherlock almost screamed in pain as he couldn't find anything.

The message read:

I have him. This is your entire fault. He will die if you don't come. Come on, you don't want him to have a heart attack… Or do you?

Sherlock's fears were confirmed. Before Sherlock could even formulate a plan, another text message was sent to him. Sherlock opened it. He shuddered as he read the coordinates. It was either him or John. But this was an easy trap. What if they don't let John go? What if they plan on killing them both? Sherlock couldn't bear seeing John die. Damn it! Why did he have to be so self-fish and want to see him? He missed him, of course. But look where that's driven them! Sherlock was scolding himself for being so foolish, so knavish.

A third message was sent to him. Sherlock's fingers trembled as he opened the message. He sighed instantly as he recognized the number. Mycroft.

It read:

Brother, dear, I know what you're up to. Don't. Don't be foolish enough to do it. Wait until I come and we can figure out a plan. You're not thinking clearly, so please. Please, don't move. I'll be there in a couple of minutes.

MH

Sherlock rolled his eyes, ignoring his brother's wishes. He got his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck one last time. Sherlock sighed softly as he looked at 221B Baker Street one last time. Sherlock closed the door gently, making his way downstairs. Sherlock opened the door and closed it behind him, walking down the London streets.

Note:

If you've, hopefully, noticed, I have always been updating every week on Thursday. Well, I may or may not update next week. Sorry.


	10. Author's Note

I'm sorry if you were all expecting an early update, or just an update as usual. But that's not the case. I do hope you read last week's notice. But if you didn't, here's the same reminder. There will not be a chapter this week. I'm sorry, truly, but I'm exhausted and currently making more changes to the tenth chapter. It'll be updated next week on Thursday, as always.

But here are some things that I realized, on tumblr, that confused some of my readers when they asked me.

1. I made the mistake of not describing what sandwich biscuits were. Sorry. I was mistaken to just put a random food out there and expect everyone to know what it was.

2. When Sherlock said he studied the solar system, he **_meant_ **it. He did it for John.

3. Mycroft has been intercepting Sherlock's calls and checking whoever calls him or sends him texts. Mycroft's been the only one sending Sherlock a messages, so it sent a red flag when Sherlock received the text with the picture and address.

4. How the... kidnappers have Sherlock's number? They took John's phone. Should've mentioned that.

That's about it, but if you have any further questions or clear ups, please don't hesitate on asking. Best be popping off now.

- SherlockianChild


	11. Chapter 10

Note:

I've decided to update early since it's the Fourth of July. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed typing it. So have a great Fourth of July! And if you don't celebrate Fourth of July, well have a terrific day. - SC

Chapter 10

The room was silent once more. The machine's humming had ceased and died down instantly. The huffing coming from John's mouth disturbed the silence. His chest was rising and falling rapidly. He slumped against his chair. He would've fallen off the chair had it not been the chains, which continued to bound him. John's face looked ragged and battered. His clothes were damp from perspiring. He was having trouble pulsating. John could feel it now. His heart was dying.

John had finally caught his breath when words began to boom into the room. John craned his neck to try to catch just _**one**_ glimpse from his perpetrator but failed in vain. John's hearing was still buzzing from the shocks, so he didn't quite hear what was said.

"What?" he asked breathlessly.

The voice chuckled at John's position. All John could hear was the sound of footsteps proceeding. It stopped momentarily as if John's perpetrator was unsure if to advance or withdraw.

"Where…is…he?" the voice questioned firmly and slowly.

"I already told you, I don't know!" John snapped back, clearly annoyed.

The voice chuckled menacingly. "Is that your final answer?" it asked.

Before John could say yes, he felt tremendous pain. Jolts of electricity were being sent, coursing through his body. John yelped in pain. He couldn't scream nor talk. It was the silent pain he was feeling. Where he couldn't express what he was feeling through verbal expression.

The sound of fingers snapping echoed through the small room, ending the electrocution. John desperately gasped for air, trying to compose himself.

"Where –"

"What do you want from me?" John exclaimed, his voice beginning to tremor.

"Where is he, John? That's all I want to know. Where are you keeping Sherlock Holmes hidden?" the voice asked.

John was panting as he felt himself buckle. He felt like he was going to give in and spill everything he knew. But he couldn't. Not to Sherlock Holmes. Not to him. It could be anyone, and it would be easy, but _him_. He would never forgive himself if he caused Sherlock to die by his own hands. No… This, _this_, pain was worth it. If it was to save the most important person in the world, to him, it was bloody well worth it.

So, without any regrets, John replied, "I don't know."

It was silent for a few moments. John could feel his heart hammering through his ribcage as silence engulfed them. Then, there came laughter, a menacing laughter.

"What's funny?" John questioned weakly, still recovering

"You, you're the one that's funny," the voice answered.

"What do you mean?" John asked, knitting his brows together.

"You! It's obvious that you know where he is. I got to say, you've got persistence. I got to give you that at the very least. People, who have been in your place before, gave up their loved ones after the fourth shock. It's been the seventh shock now. You really do love him, do you?" the voice explained tauntingly.

"For the love of god, I'm not gay –"

"And that's what you protest on from what I just said?" the voice questioned.

"I'm getting sick and tired of people telling me what I am and what I'm not! Even when I'm getting tortured for something ridiculous, I get questioned on this topic? Come on, give me a break!" John exclaimed angrily.

"John!" the voice snapped back, causing John to grow silent. "You don't see it, do you?"

"See what?" John yelled, throwing his head back against the chair.

"If you could see yourself, you'd see just how you act and behave around him. You, yourself, would agree with the rest of the damn world!" the voice said.

John rolled his eyes, shaking his head. He couldn't believe he was getting lectured on how he supposedly feels about his flat mate.

"He's just my flat mate –

"No, he's not, John. He's not _**just**_ your flat mate. You should know that," the voice answered softly.

John was silent, obviously defeated. He had his head low, thinking about what the voice had said. He couldn't help but smile softly as he remembered his time with Sherlock. They were always chasing cases, making Mrs. Hudson bonkers, making Anderson feel like a git from Sherlock's witty comebacks, grinding in each other's business until they were mad up the walls. Maybe… No! He was being manipulated. This person was trying to break him, slip past his defense. But then again…

"But never mind that, it seems like I'm going to get nowhere with that. So, I'm giving you one last chance, John, where do you have him? Where is Sherlock being kept hidden?" the voice asked.

John was catching his breath. When he felt he was ready, he looked up and said with a smile, "I don't know. And…if I did know, there's no way in hell that I'd tell you. I'd rather die then sell him, of all people, out."

"How brave of you, John," the voice replied.

"No, not brave at all," John said, his voice sounding boldly. "Someone once told me that bravery was a kinder word for stupidity. That's all I am, a stupid fool who cares too much for a highly functioning social path."

The voice laughed at John's response, mocking him. The footsteps receded once more, making their way to the switch. John sighed shakily, closing his eyes. He waited while his fingers clutched onto the chair.

Sherlock stormed out of the flat, his coat flapping dramatically behind him. He wasn't wearing any wigs, costumes, or makeup. No, he was done. Completely done with all of this. He was ending this once and for all. He was obviously mad with anger. His complexion was dark and dangerous. His eyes were piercing looking, almost like a serpent's. His tall figure made him look menacingly. In short, he was pissed off.

Sherlock crossed the road, where cars were crossing here and there. He stepped in front of a cab. The cabbie driver had just barely pressed the brake, almost running over Sherlock. Sherlock had not moved an inch during the chaos. He didn't even flinch nor bat his eyes closed.

The cabbie driver, angry from Sherlock's recklessness, jolted out of the car and slowly walked towards Sherlock. The cabbie driver was a man who was near his early fifties. He was balding but hid it with his cap. He was slightly pudgy and shorter, a lot shorter, than Sherlock.

"What the hell! What do you think you're doing? I almost ran you over for god's sake! What're you doing crossing the street like that? Well? Answer me, damn it!" the cabbie driver exclaimed.

"Move!" Sherlock ordered, pushing his way past the cabbie.

The cabbie was stunned by Sherlock's actions, rendering him motionless and incapable of communication. Sherlock opened the cab's door, getting inside the car. The cabbie realized this and ran towards his car. Sherlock started the vehicle, driving off in the cabbie's car. The cabbie driver began chasing after his car, shouting incoherent things at Sherlock. Soon, the cabbie gave up the chase and lost trace of his car.

Sherlock fumbled into his pockets, looking for his phone. Once he felt it, he pulled it out of his pocket, and he checked the text message. He read the coordinates once more. Sherlock was about to put his phone in his pocket once more, but his phone chimed once more. Sherlock opened the text message and read it. It read:

Sherlock, stop being foolish and listen to me for once in your life! I told you to wait. Don't you understand? They're going to kill you both if you arrive like that!

– MH

Sherlock tsked angrily, throwing his phone in the passenger side. He floored the pedal, not caring if the police would stop him. He only cared for one thing only, one thing, and that was John.

John was panting heavily, his chest rising and falling heavily. He was desperately catching his breath in vain. He knew he couldn't take anymore. He just couldn't. His mind could take it. It was his body, his heart, which betrayed him. He could feel it. He could feel his heart dying on him.

"Ten?" John gasped shortly.

"Ten what?" the voice questioned.

"Was that…my tenth time…getting electrocuted?" John asked.

"I believe it was why?" the voice replied.

"Just trying to set a record, that's all," John sneered.

"Shut up! Shut up, John Watson!" the voice ordered.

"Funny, isn't that why you're electrocuting me? I believe so. Because I won't say anything?" John continued.

"Do you want to die, John?" the voice exclaimed.

"Aren't I to die anyway?" John taunted.

"Don't play games with me, John. I don't favor games," the voice replied.

"Funny, how things are. We both can't have what we want –"

"JOHN!" the voice hollered.

"Who are you?" John asked.

"I already told you –"

"Come on, I'm going to die anyways. Tell me," John replied.

The voice sighed in annoyance. "John, you know who I am. There's somewhere in that thick little mind of yours that knows who I am. I'm someone who you know, or who you think you know."

John was taken aback by the response. It was someone he knew? Well, it is typical in homicide but whom? John grew afraid now. Who could it be? John craned his neck to glimpse the voice. He could make out a figure now. John craned his neck more but James had forced him to face him, punching him in the gut.

A phone began to bellow in the room, breaking the tension. The voice answered the phone.

"Yes, what is it?" it asked. "Oh. Oh! Oh, really? Well, isn't that lucky? Thank you. Yes, right away."

"Done?" John questioned, obviously annoyed.

"Yes, done. Your boyfriend's coming."

"He's not my boyfriend –"

"Funny, how you pick that up apart from the rest of the sentence," the voice taunted.

John didn't reply.

"Anyways, it's sweet that your knight and shining armor's come to rescue you. It's a shame that he'll die in the process. Thank you, John. This was fun. It really was," the voice answered.

John was still silent. But inside, he was secretly happy and shocked. Sherlock… He was risking his life to come save him? John couldn't help but grin like an idiot. God, he's been a fool. James had noticed John's smiling and punched him repeatedly.

"Oi! Stop it, James! Game's over," the voice ordered.

James looked at the voice with a menacing smile. He nodded. He disappeared from John's view, but then he appeared shortly after. He held a can of gasoline. John's smile disappeared quickly. He tried hard not to tremble with fear. James sneered, cackling madly. He poured gas all over the floor, leaving a trail of gas.

When he finished, he walked towards the door behind John, leaving. It was just the voice and John now.

"Listen… you – you don't have to do this. It doesn't have to end like this," John said.

"Sorry John, but my patience's wearing," the voice replied. "This is how the story ends. Well, for you at least. You won't see your boyfriend die. Nope. Take that as an act of mercy on my behalf."

Suddenly, John could hear a light being matched. His skin churned and whitened instantly. Well, this is it. There were no more chances of escape. There has to be a miracle for him to escape this. John closed his eyes as he heard silence, silence and then the thudding noise of the match.

Immediately, John could sense the fire. John opened his eyes, seeing the flames before him. John struggled against his chains but failed in vain. The only thing he obtained was bleeding wrists. John sighed in defeat, head low.

The only thing he could think of was Sherlock. He was going to die and so was Sherlock. No… If John was going to die, it was for Sherlock to survive. How cruel can reality be? John shook his head. The only thing he found unfair was that he wasn't going to see Sherlock one last time. One more time. In all of his life that he had ever wished for, he wished to see him one last time. Just once and he could go in peace. Just one more miracle.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The yellow cab entered through the worn-out gates of the building. The building was the same style Mycroft would always 'abduct' John to. The only difference was that this wasn't one of Mycroft's doing. The cab slowed its pace as it made its way inside. Inside the cab, Sherlock was tapping his fingers impatiently, fingers drumming on the wheel of the car. There were two men, obviously snipers, standing guard behind the car, making sure Sherlock didn't drive off.

One of the doors to the building had opened creakily, sound echoing loudly outside. A male figure appeared in Sherlock's view. The man had jet black hair with pale green eyes. He looked menacing, yes, but he wasn't as tall or nearly as pissed off as Sherlock. It was none other than James. Now, don't we like him?

Sherlock closed his eyes, shakily drawing breath. Well, this was it. He opened them once more and looked out the window. He grasped the handle and opened the door. He came out rather quickly, slamming the door behind him. Strangely, Sherlock wasn't wearing his coat and scarf. The items were never in the car, yet… he wore and came with them. How odd.

James and Sherlock locked eyes with each other. The tension seemed never ending. At last, James cocked his head and cleared his throat. With a cocky smile, he said, "Come, come, Mr. Holmes, we've got some business to attend to."

Without saying a word, Sherlock obeyed and followed James. James came inside the building once more, guiding Sherlock to his perpetrator, or possibly, death. James kept on glancing at Sherlock every now and then, trying hard not to cackle along the way.

"You're awfully quiet, you know. I was told that you were blatantly talkative. Guess not, right?" James answered.

Sherlock didn't reply to him. He didn't want to waste his breath on him, not even breathe in his direction. Even Anderson was sounding decent right now. Sherlock didn't even dare look at him. He just followed him, something he's never done before. James stopped in front of a room. He looked at Sherlock, smiling grimily.

"This is your stop," he said.

Sherlock, again, didn't answer him. Instead, he opened the door silently and made his way inside the room. The minute he stepped inside the room, the door had slammed behind him. Sherlock glanced back, seeing the door had been locked. He looked forward, seeing the perpetrator behind this whole scheme at last.

The flames of the smoke were engulfing the room. It wouldn't be long until the whole room was nothing but fire. John was near the end of the room, still unharmed by the fire. But the smoke wasn't being so helpful. He was hacking and coughing hard and loudly, forcing his voice to become hoarse. He thought he was going to start bleeding because of the hoarseness of his throat.

John tried to keep himself calm, pacing his breathing so he wouldn't waste what oxygen was left. John could feel the heat of the flames, causing him to perspire profusely. He was drenched in sweat. God, he felt disgusted with himself. John used his sweaty palms to try to slip through the handcuffs. Unfortunately, it didn't work. Though that didn't stop him, he continued to wiggle his hands, trying to just slip past by just an inch.

After a moment, John looked at the direction of the fire. It was nearing him. The fire was going to catch him in less than five minutes if he didn't escape. No, he couldn't die like this. Not like this. He _always_ thought he was going to die in one of Sherlock's experiments, but burn? No, that was a slow and painful death if it caught him. No, he wouldn't have it.

All the dead bodies he saw at the war. Some of them burned. He knew how a burnt body looked like, barely even recognizable. He remembered the opposing side; they had caused an explosion and fire had started. All those people were screaming for death from the flames. John shook his head, head low. One of his side's worst moments. Was this karma?

Creeeaaak. John snapped his head towards the door, having heard it open. At last, some kind of glimmer of hope was in his grasp. He narrowed his eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the figure. As soon as John realized who the figure was, his eyes widened. No... Come on! Couldn't he catch a break?

At the door was James, he was at the doorway, looking menacing as always. He smirked at John, seeing his reaction. He didn't approach more because of the flames, but he didn't need to. Not with what he had in planned.

"You know, as much as I'd love to watch you burn painfully, it's not enough. I want you dead, now!" James explained. James fumbled into his pocket, pulling out a gun. "Time to die."

John looked at the gun, then at James. His breathing had become labored. He didn't know what he preferred: burning to death or dying by this psycho's hands. James had taken the safety off the gun, loading it. John closed his eyes, having already accepted death in hopeless defeat.

All John had heard was the noise of something thudding onto the ground. Hesitantly, John opened his eyes, surprised to see James on the floor. John craned his head, inspecting the man. He was unconscious, but why? John noticed a dark figure by the door. Was it a friend or foe? He desperately tried to see through the foggy smoke. When his vision cleared his surroundings, his eyes widened once he made out the identity of the figure. John chuckled softly, which was barely audible, and smiled faintly.

While that was going on, Sherlock had his arms crossed, glaring at the person behind it all. The person was talking but Sherlock could care less. He wasn't paying much attention. Instead, he kept his eyes focused on the door. Every now and then, he would cock his head to look at it.

"Pay attention to me!" the voice demanded, once again. "Better, now I bet you're wondering where your little toy is. But the thing is you came in vain. He's dead. He should be dead by now. It's a shame, really. I'll never know what killed him: the smoke or the fire."

Sherlock didn't say anything, just stared. He was terribly out of character. What was his game? Why was he acting like…not himself? Even when facing death, Sherlock would still be, well, Sherlock.

"Well, come on. Aren't you going to say anything? The infamous Sherlock Holmes? Come on!" the voice continued. "I'm really, really, disappointed in you. Nothing like Moriarty said. He praised you in every way, even gave up his life for you. God, did he waste his time on you."

"Do you want to know why Moriarty liked him so much?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounding funny.

The voice seemed confused, knitting their brows. "Why does your voice sound funny?" the voice asked. "Wait, who? _You_?"

"No, _him_, Sherlock Holmes. There's a reason Moriarty liked Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was the master when he was being threatened. I mean, do you honestly think he'd come for John so foolishly? I mean, he's pissed, yes, but he'd have a plan to – what is it called – burn you down," he explained.

As if realization washed over, the voice glared at the person in horror. "Who. Are. You?" the voice demanded angrily. The voice didn't even wait for an explanation, angrily yelling, "Imposter!"

The voice had shot the fake Sherlock in the chest. Down went the fake Sherlock within seconds, hitting the floor. When satisfied, the perpetrator opened the door and ran out of the room, hurrying to the room where John was kept in.

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock asked, looking at John.

John, obviously frightened, managed to nod shakily. "Do it!" he yelled, looking away from him and the object he was holding.

Sherlock was holding an axe in his hands. He held it up with both hands, leveling his position with the axe. He looked at John's wrists, which were bounded by the chains. He asked John to pull out as hard as he could so that the handcuffs were at its limit. In a swift movement, Sherlock swung the axe down, breaking the chains in one swing.

John exclaimed, whooping in happiness. Sherlock made his way in front of him, easily cutting loose the cuffs at his feet. John quickly and shakily untied the metal strap around his waist. He was free, free at last. John stood on his feet, walking feebly from the lack of moving about.

Sherlock was catching his breath, relieved he didn't cut John at all. He was exhausted from putting the fire out. Even though he put the fire out, the room still heavily smelled of the fire, which did them no good.

Out of nowhere, he was attacked by John, who almost toppled over him. John was hugging Sherlock, squeezing the air out of him. "I can't believe you came for me," he whispered, clearly happily.

Sherlock smiled faintly, stroking John's back. But reality set in and he gently broke himself free. "John, sorry I have to say this, but now's not the time to be hugging. We're still in danger and we need to get the hell out of here!" Sherlock explained.

Half embarrassed, John nodded. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"Later, John," Sherlock said, putting his coat back on.

He had taken his coat off when he tried to put the fire out, not wanting his coat to catch fire. Luckily, he had found a fire extinguisher and used it to extinguish the fire. And with that same extinguisher, he was able to hit James's head with, knocking him unconscious.

"Are you able to walk?" he asked, turning to face John.

John attempted to walk to answer Sherlock's question. "Yeah," he replied.

"All right, good, let's go," Sherlock said. "Take my hand."

Without hesitation, John took Sherlock's hand, running out of the room beside him. He smiled. He knew he shouldn't but he couldn't help it, it reminded him of that night. They ran out of the room, Sherlock leading the way. They scurried down some stairs, turned left, and ran out a black door that was rotting. They were out of the building and free at last. They were at the back of the building, not the front. They sprinted into the cab. Sherlock hurriedly turned the engine on, cursing silently at his trembling fingers, driving away from the building and harm's way.

At last, the perpetrator had finally reached the room where John was being kept in. The first thing it – yes, I will call the perpetrator 'it' – noticed was James sprawled on the floor, unconscious. Once the perpetrator descended inside the room, it noticed the flames gone and the fire extinguisher beside James. It noticed the chains broken, and it noticed the axe on the floor, giving it a clear picture of what had happened.

The sounds of footsteps coming closer bellowed throughout the room, giving it a chilling atmosphere. The perpetrator looked at the chair, the empty chair. No! Why? How could they have been so stupid and underestimate Sherlock Holmes?

"God damn it!" the voice screamed, kicking the wall. "I underestimated you, Mr. Holmes. But no more! No more playing, Mr. Nice Guy."


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"Ow!" John exclaimed, pulling back from Sherlock.

"I already explained that it was going to hurt," Sherlock answered, dabbing John's face again. "Now stop moving!"

John murmured angrily, not liking the burning sensation. But he obeyed Sherlock, grabbing hold of the arms of his chair. He tried not to flinch again, seeing the look of frustration on Sherlock's face. They were back at 221B. Sherlock couldn't risk John going back to his flat with Heather in case they'd come after him.

"So…how did you know I was taken?" John questioned, trying to be still at the same time.

Still dabbing John with alcohol, Sherlock replied, "I was sent a text from the perpetrator, who used your phone."

John moved, looking at Sherlock. He fumbled in his pockets, but sure enough, his phone was gone.

"John, stop moving," Sherlock ordered, groaning in annoyance.

"Sorry," John murmured, repositioning himself again.

Sherlock resumed treating John. "Besides beating and electrocuting you, what else did they do to you?" Sherlock asked, looking at John seriously.

"That's all, really. I was threatened with your life," John replied. "Oh! Wait, I was threatened to get shot and burn to death."

"I got that," Sherlock replied. "I've got an oxygen tank if you'll need it."

"No, I think I'll be fine if I just rest," John said.

It was silent once more, the awkward type of silence that John hated the most. It meant that Sherlock was in deep thought, something was troubling him.

"You know, I think you're an idiot," John announced.

"Huh and why's that?" Sherlock asked, pulling his hand away from John. He turned to look at him, raising his brow as if to continue.

"You came to rescue me so recklessly, Sherlock. You could've gotten yourself killed!" John began.

"I formulated a plan with Mycroft. I didn't exactly follow it but –"

"Do you have any idea how worried I was when I heard you had come for me?" John explained.

Sherlock blinked several times at John, thinking carefully what he should say next. "What did you want me to do, John? If I had stalled anymore, you would've surely been shot by James!" he snapped back.

John sighed shakily, seeing he had a point. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's that – I didn't want to die knowing you had come all this way just to die. I tried so hard to keep you safe. I protected you even when my brain was being fried."

"John, I appreciate what you did for me, honestly. In all honestly, I would've done the same thing if I were in your position," Sherlock answered, looking at John.

"No, you wouldn't –" He stopped himself, turning to face Sherlock. He noticed the seriousness his expression held. "No... Really?"

"Shut up," Sherlock answered, half embarrassed he had confessed something personal. "Okay, we're done here," he said, rising to his feet and walking away.

John watched as Sherlock walked away, smiling faintly. Sherlock went into the kitchen, putting the first aid kit away. He washed his hands in the sink, scrubbing them clean. As he dried his hands, Sherlock's phone began to beep. He pulled his phone out from his pocket, reading a text message from Mycroft. He scoffed annoyed, rolling his eyes. He snapped the phone shut, putting it back into his pocket. He heard the teapot whistling so he marched towards it, fixing himself a cup.

John noticed Sherlock as he grabbed and put away his phone. "Who was that?" he asked, looking at Sherlock.

"Mycroft, who else?" Sherlock answered in a bitter tone.

"How did Mycroft help rescue me? You said something about a plan?" he asked.

"It's not really a big deal," Sherlock said, sipping on his cup of tea.

"It's a big deal to me," John said. "I could have died was it not for you and Mycroft."

Sherlock looked at John, seeing his sincerity. He sighed softly, putting his cup down. "Mycroft convinced me to send someone else in my place to pretend to be me. As the double went in through the front, I came in through the back of the building. Mycroft's 'men' shot or arrested some of the people who were guarding the area," Sherlock explained.

"So…this double, who was he?' John asked.

"Lucas Robinson," Sherlock answered simply.

"Yeah, well, who was Lucas Robinson?" John continued.

"Lucas was in theater a few years ago," Sherlock said. "Mycroft contacted and hired him to be my double if I was ever in danger. No, Lucas wasn't used in faking my death if that's what you were wondering," Sherlock answered, seeing John's expression. "Lucas was single, thirty two, and an orphan. He looked just like me except he had blonde hair. Of course, Mycroft forced him to dye his hair to match my hair color."

"So, Lucas agreed to all of this even knowing he could face death?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded his head.

"Wow, that's – I don't know what to call that exactly," John replied, rubbing his chin.

"Bravery," Sherlock said. "I would call it that."

"Mycroft would have called it stupidity," John answered.

"Well, the only reason Mycroft would call it stupid is because he can't even risk his own life to protect the ones he cares for in person. He does it all behind a computer or a desk," Sherlock snapped back.

John nodded firmly, agreeing with what Sherlock had said. "So…where is Lucas. What happened to him?" John questioned.

"I don't know," Sherlock confessed. "But he recorded the whole thing, so it should be on my phone."

Sherlock made his way over to John, sitting in the armchair in front of him. He placed his cup beside him, pulling out his phone again. Sherlock clicked on something, causing a video footage to pop up.

"Shit!" Sherlock cursed angrily, nearly dropping his phone.

"What?" John questioned, seeing his facial expression. John took the phone from Sherlock, looking at the dead body lying on the floor. He looked at it in horror. "Oh, god, bastards!" John exclaimed angrily.

"Don't worry, John," Sherlock said voice full of restraint.

He was angry. Someone innocent had died by his hands. Normally, he wouldn't care but it's taking its toll on him. If he hadn't been so impatient with seeing John again, none of this would've happened! God, he's such an idiot!

"Sherlock," John answered, sensing the tension. "Are you all right?"

"No, John, I'm not all right. This is going to end really soon, John. And Lucas's death won't go in vain, I'll tell you that. Because what he did, what he _**caused**_ was to reveal the perpetrator behind this whole damn thing!" Sherlock exclaimed, rising to his feet.

"What do you mean?" John questioned, rising from his seat as well.

"Think, John, _think_!" Sherlock said angrily. "For once in your life, _think_!"

John had his mouth agape, shocked that Sherlock was acting like this. "Sherlock, stop it! Control yourself, will you? You're starting to act more of an arse than you actually are!" John replied angrily. "And now's not the time to be arguing, not after all that's just happened. Or have you completely forgotten?"

Sherlock's face softened, realizing where his emotions were leading him. "John…I'm sorry," he answered. "Listen, Lucas had a camera on him. That camera was recording and the footage would be sent to my phone and Mycroft's laptop. But…we can't find out who is behind this until everything's been loaded."

John had moved over to the couch, obviously upset. John looked down at his feet, fumbling with his fingers.

"John, I said I was sorry –"

"It's not that, Sherlock," John whispered. "I – I just want this to stop. I want us to go back to the beginning when we were safe – safer," John explained.

Sherlock sighed silently, walking towards John. He sat beside John on the couch. "I promise you, John, this is almost over. Do you trust me?" Sherlock asked, looking at him.

"I do, always, Sherlock," John said.

"Then believe me when I say that this is almost over. All we need is the footage and we can start over, John," Sherlock answered.

John smiled faintly. He was still upset and worried but something in Sherlock's voice made him believe him. He trusted Sherlock with his life and he's proven it multiple times. John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, sighing softly. Sherlock noticed this, allowing it. He extended his arm out to John, pulling him closer. John looked up at Sherlock, but quickly looked away.

"I know, this is going to sound mad, but…I realized something when you had faked your death," John whispered.

"Oh, really?" Sherlock asked, rubbing John's arm. "What did you realize?"

"How much I really missed you," John answered.

"Well, I thought you would miss me, not really a surprise –"

"No!" John murmured, shaking his head. "I mean, I realized that I was wrong all along."

"Wrong?" Sherlock questioned, knitting his brows at him. He turned to look down at John. "What do you mean by that?"

"What everyone insinuated, I realized they were right," John said, finally looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked back several times, trying to register what John had meant. He didn't need to rehear what John had said. Just looking at John said it all. His pupils were dilated and an increase of heart beat, not to mention the flush creeping across John's face. John Hamish Watson was in love with him. Sherlock grabbed John's cheek, leaning towards him. Following his lead, John leaned upwards, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck.

But once again, the kiss wasn't meant to happen. There came a blasting of knocking coming from the door, disrupting the almost kiss.

"John! John! John, are you in there?" Heather bellowed out, pounding on John's door.

Sherlock and John looked at each other and then at the door, their faces both flushed and hearts pounded rapidly.

"How does she know you're here?" Sherlock whispered softly.

"I lived here before I met her," John replied. "She knows I still come here every now and then."

"John! John, I know you're in there. Please, come out. I want to talk to you!" she exclaimed.

John looked at Sherlock, motioning him to hide. Sherlock groaned angrily, running off into the bathroom once more. Once John noticed Sherlock was hidden, he opened the door, door flying open.

Heather walked in the place, arms crossed. "John, why are you here? Why aren't you at the flat? I called you six times!" she exclaimed, looking at him angrily. She realized the state of condition John was in. Her face fell, shocked. "John! Oh, my god, John! What happened to you? Who did this to you?" she demanded.

"I'm fine, Heather, honestly," John lied, looking at the bathroom. "I was out walking and a group of kids beat me up."

"What? We've got to call the police. You can't let them get away with this, John!" she yelled.

"Heather, Heather, _please_ calm down! I'm fine, really. I swear to you I'm fine," John answered, trying to calm her down.

"John, I'm worried about you," she whispered. "Come on, let's go home."

She grabbed John's wrist, tugging on it for him to start walking. John looked at the bathroom, almost letting out a whimper. He didn't want to go. Not when he had just confessed something to Sherlock. He needed to know what he thought. He needed to know how he felt about it.

"John, come on, let's go!" Heather exclaimed, forcing John out the door.

John looked back one last time before closing the door behind him, leaving the flat. Sherlock came out of the bathroom, deeply angry by the whole thing. The nerve of some people! How dare she interfere in something so important? Sherlock walked towards the window, slightly opening the curtain. He noticed John walk out the flat. Sherlock frowned, silently wishing he could be with him.

Before Sherlock could do anything more, his phone beeped. Ah, the footage was ready. Sherlock viewed the footage, waiting to see the culprit behind this. Surely John would visit him in the morning. Immediately, Sherlock's face whitened, losing all of its color. His fingers, which held the phone, trembled.

In an instant, Sherlock broke into a sprint, trying to chase after John. He saw John inside the cab with Heather. He ran after the cab but it was too fast for him to catch up. "John!" Sherlock yelled before slowing down his pace.

Sherlock looked at the screen to make sure he wasn't imagining anything. Nope, it was a clear image. There was no mistaking it. On the footage was Heather. Heather was looking at Lucas, cursing angrily at having finding out he was a fake, and shooting Lucas in the chest.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Sherlock ran towards a cab, shouting "Taxi!" But the cabbie driver ignored his call, driving past him. The cab Sherlock had hijacked earlier was taken by Mycroft, to hide the evidence. Sherlock had his phone in his hand, dialing the only person he could turn to besides John, Mycroft. He cursed silently as he heard the phone buzz silently. Of all the times, his brother decides not to pick up the phone at this moment? Sherlock groaned angrily, coming close to throwing a fit. Why was he being refused in a moment like this? Sherlock could feel the panic set in, coursing throughout his body.

This has never happened to him, never. He had never been this worried for someone before. He redialed Mycroft as another cab had driven past him. Finally, Sherlock managed to get a cab to stop, entering the car in a hurry. As Sherlock entered the cab, he finally got a hold on Mycroft.

"Took you long enough," Sherlock spat angrily, trying to level his breathing.

Sherlock looked up at the cabbie driver, telling him John's address to his flat. He ordered him to hurry, telling him he'd pay him extra money if he did.

Sherlock return his attention to his phone. "Mycroft, Heather – it's her – is responsible for the whole thing. She did and planned all of this. This was all a trap to lure me out!" Sherlock explained, trying not to rouse the cabbie's suspicions. After a moment of looking at the cabbie driver, he resumed his attention to Mycroft. "Well?"

"I know, brother dear, I know already. I just saw the footage. You're going after them, aren't you?" Mycroft responded simply.

"Of course, I'm bloody going after them!" Sherlock yelled angrily.

Mycroft groaned on the other side of the phone. "What am I going to do with you, Sherlock? This is _exactly_ what she wants," he replied.

"I don't care, Mycroft. I don't care anymore. I want –"

"I know, I know, you want John back. I saw and heard everything that happened earlier," Mycroft answered. "I must say, I'm impressed. I thought you couldn't do it, make it fall –"

"Mycroft, under the circumstances, I don't think _**now**_ is the time to be discussing this sort of thing," Sherlock snapped back. "Are you going to help me or not, now?"

There was a pause for a few moments before another sigh was heard. "You know, you're not making this easy on me. I can't make a plan on the spot –"

"Then I will!" Sherlock exclaimed, disconnecting the call. He looked back at the cabbie driver, who was knitting his brows at him. "What? What're you looking at?" he snapped back.

The cabbie driver, astonished, kept his eyes locked on the road, not daring to even glimpse at Sherlock.

Sherlock drummed his fingers against his knees, obviously impatient and in a hurry. He looked at the cabbie driver again, saying "Can you drive faster?"

"This is as fast as I'll drive, sir. Listen, I don't care how much you're willing to pay me but the law is the law. We're almost there. Just wait three more min –"

"Don't you understand?" Sherlock exclaimed. "I don't have three minutes. I don't have time on my hands right now! Now, _drive_!"

Obviously shaken, the cabbie driver nodded and obeyed, flooring the gas pedal more. Sherlock lay against the backseat, repressing the urge to scream and jump out the car. He gazed out the window, eyes filled with worry. _John_, he thought.

John was in the passenger side of the car, looking out the window. He closed his eyes, sighing softly. He wondered what Sherlock was doing. Was he okay? Was he upset with him for leaving him after just confessing to him? God, Sherlock was going to hate him when he came back in the morning. John groaned irritably, turning to face the ceiling of the car. He stared blankly at it as if a message were encrypted in there.

Wait! What was he doing? He was going to be married to Heather. John took a quick glimpse at Heather then returned his gaze back at the ceiling. No, _what_ was he doing exactly?

Realization had set in at last. John blinked slowly, everything piecing together. He didn't even _love_ Heather, or even like her! He was just with her for the sake of not being alone. Sure, she helped him cope with the fall and Sherlock's death, but…it was nothing more than blinded love. She – she seduced him! John glanced over at Heather, narrowing his eyes at her.

Heather glanced at John, noticing him staring at her. "What?" she questioned, knitting her brows together.

John peered down then looked up at Heather. "Heather… I'm having second thoughts," John answered.

"About what?" she asked innocently.

"Us," John said.

"What about us?" she questioned.

"Don't play coy with me," John answered firmly. "Heather, I'm reconsidering if I want to marry you or not."

Suddenly, Heather slammed on the brakes, turning to glare at John. "What?" she exclaimed. "_Why_?"

John blinked back nervously, surprised by her actions. He stammered, "Well – errm – we always fight –"

"All couple's fight," she answered simply.

"Not this much," John protested. "You're always, always, out. We never spend any time together anymore. It's like the moment I popped the question, you forgot about me –"

"John, _I'm_ working," she stated.

John was silent for a few moments, nodding briskly. No, wait! "You're manipulating me!" John exclaimed. Then…everything came flooding back, every detail, everything that's ever happened to him. "All this time, since the very beginning, you've been manipulating me!"

Heather narrowed her eyes, staring at John. "What are you talking about?" she snapped back.

"The day we met," John began. "I was having a nice cup of tea with my girlfriend, my girlfriend. You convinced me to break up with her, _you tempted me_. You never _loved_ me! You always made me talk about myself. You never told me anything you did or about yourself. All I know is that you're a teacher _and_ we live together. You only wanted to talk about _me_. I've been living with a complete stranger!"

Heather glared at John. In a flash, Heather put the car in gear, driving them both off. It was silent for a few moments. The tension roamed around in the air, making it insufferable being in the vehicle.

After a few moments, John noticed their flat in view. He sighed silently, knowing this would be over now. But, Heather had driven past their flat. John looked behind, watching their flat disappear from view. John glanced over at Heather, who looked very angry.

"Errm, Heather, are we going out?" he asked. "Dinner?"

Heather scoffed a laugh, rolling her eyes. "No," she said.

"Heather, if you haven't noticed, we past our flat," he answered.

"_Our_? There's no 'our' anymore," she replied hysterically.

John began, "Heather –"

There came the clicking of noises. He looked around to see the all the doors locked. "Hea-Heather, why did you lock the door?" he stammered.

He returned his gaze back at Heather, who floored the gas pedal. At the speed of the car, John was slammed against his seat. He winced slightly, looking at Heather with fear. He noticed the speed accelerate slowly.

"Heather, why – why are you acting…weird?" he asked.

"You just said you wanted to leave me, why would I not act 'weird'?" she hollered, hitting the wheel with her fist.

"Heather –"

"Stop it, John! Stop it, _**NOW**_!" she screamed. "Stop calling me Heather!"

"Wh – what?" John said, obviously confused. "But that's your name!"

Heather slowly turned to stare at John, looking menacing. John noticed the look on her face. Kill was all he was able to read. John had a chilling feeling, surging throughout his body.

"My name is not Heather," she managed. "My name's Jasmine Goodwin! All of this, John, was for you. I was _forced_ to find you. I was forced to make you love me, which wasn't really hard. I was forced to listen to all of your annoying problems! John, I swear to god, I could care less if you believed in him or not!"

"Couldn't," John replied.

"What?" she said, taken by surprised.

"I couldn't care less," John corrected.

"Oh, piss off, John!" she yelled.

"So…all of it, was all a lie," John said.

"Correct," she replied.

"Why did you do all of this?" he asked. "Oh… I get it now. Oh! Stupid, stupid. I should've known. God, it's always been about him, Sherlock. Hasn't it?" John questioned.

"My, my, you're not as stupid as I thought," she answered.

"So…it was you. You abducted me? You were electrocuting me? You were going to kill me?" John demanded.

"We've got a winner," she laughed sickly.

John turned to look at her in disgust. God, Sherlock was right. She really wasn't his type and he was making a mistake.

"This is almost over," she said. "And I'm glad I don't have to pretend anymore. I can be me again. Meee!"

"Why is it going to end today?" John questioned.

"Piece it together, Johnny boy," she replied.

John was silent but didn't say anything.

"Fine, then, I'll explain. Your dear little lover boy is going to die today," she answered. "He's going to try and rescue you and it'll all come crumbling down!"

John was really dumbfounded and confused. He didn't know what to do anymore. He couldn't escape or she'd shoot him. He noticed the pistol in her pocket. John looked out the window, sighing silently. God, he was so stupid. He should've known better. _Sherlock_, he thought.


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently against the window, feeling panicked. He felt like as the seconds went by, the farther away John was from him. He growled angrily just thinking of the idea of John being gone. Damn it, he was so stupid! How could he have not known it was Heather? But then again, she's under Moriarty's wing. He taught how to be manipulative. That's why he didn't know it was her. Now, she had John because of his recklessness.

Finally, the cabbie stopped in front of John's flat. Sherlock quickly exited the car, hopping onto the sidewalk. He walked up the steps of the flat, knocking on the door. He pressed his ear against the door. Silence. He backed away, looking at the window. Dark. They weren't here but Sherlock knew they had to past by here. He noticed the cabbie drive away and chased after it.

"No, no, no!" he screamed, as it stopped. "Drive."

"Where to?" the cabbie asked, as he waited for Sherlock to sit down.

"Just drive! I'll tell you when to stop!" Sherlock replied, trembling.

Sherlock forced himself to take in deep breaths, knowing he'd get a panic attack. But he couldn't help it. He was worried about John. John wasn't important in this. _He_ was. John was easily disposable in Heather's view. She looked through his disguise when he came to clear things up with her and John. That's why she left the flat, not because he insulted her. She was planning on making her move.

Heather was driving the car, making a few turns here and there. John was looking out the window, tapping his fingers against his knee. He felt like an idiot for trusting her. But…he was in need. He needed comfort since nobody gave him any. Well, now that he thought about it, Mrs. Hudson gave him comfort. So did Molly, Sarah, and Lestrade, even Mycroft! He – He had pushed them away because…they reminded him of Sherlock. John groaned angrily, covering his face with his hands. He was so ashamed of himself, pushing those who cared for him.

Heather glanced over at John, seeing how he was covering his face. She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. She continued to stare straight at the road. "So, John," she said. "I want you to send your boyfriend a message. Give him the coordinates of where we're going."

"And how do you suppose I can do that if I don't have my phone?" John spat, crossing his arms at her.

Heather groaned, scratching his head. "You're so annoying, love. Do try to hush once in a while," she sputtered. Heather fumbled into her jacket. She grasped the object in her pocket, pulling it out. She handed it over to John, one hand still holding the wheel "Go on, take it," she ordered.

John hesitated before he took hold of the phone. It was his phone. She must've taken it from him when he was knocked out, just like Sherlock had said. He turned it on, searching through the contacts. He glanced over at Heather, waiting for her to tell him the coordinates or directions.

John fumbled over the keypad, typing out the coordinates. He wrote a message near the bottom, letting Sherlock knot it was from him and not from Heather. He sighed airlessly as he closed his phone, putting his phone back into his pant pocket. He rested his head against the seat, trying to get a brief break from the incoming drama. He closed his eyes.

After a few minutes, Heather made a swift turn, parking the car in an available parking space. Heather cut the ignition, turning to stare at John. She looked at him, eyes trailing up and down.

John looked out the window, noticing they were in front of a carnival. There were people scattered around the place. What an idiot! This was the perfect chance to escape. John unlocked the car, opening it.

But before he could make a run for it, Heather pointed a gun at him, cocking it. "Nuh-uh. Don't you dare, John Watson," she ordered.

John lifted both his hands up on each side, surrendering. Heather smirked, climbing out of the vehicle, gun still pointed at John. John follows suit, closing the door in front of her. Heather removes her jacket, wrapping the gun in it. But she could still pull the trigger. She clutches John's arm, leading him towards the carnival.

John notices the crowd of people, looking for a way to escape. He glanced at Heather, eyeing her suspiciously. After they had past several people, they were now emerged in crowds and crowds of people.

"You know," he said, "I can always scream for help. There're a lot of people, your first mistake –"

Heather looked at John, smiling devilishly. "Oh, John. Do you really think I picked this place randomly?" she asked him. "Never mind that. Go ahead, scream for help. But when you do, I won't hesitate on shooting you."

"But you might kill me –"

"Oh, John, do you really think this is all about you? How selfish of you!" she exclaimed, clearly giddy. "John, you're not my target, Sherlock is. You don't matter to me at all. Sherlock does. All I wanted from you was to get Sherlock. And now, I will have him. Thanks to you," she explained.

John tried to move away from Heather, but she had a firm grip, grasping John's arm. And then he felt it. The gun pressed against his side. John looked down at his side then back at Heather, glaring at her.

"So, tell me, John," she said. "Do you recognize this place? Anything about this place ring some bells?"

John rolled his eyes, ignoring her question. Of course he recognized the carnival. This was where they went on their first date. She had insisted on picking the place and John agreed. God, she had been planning to pick this place since then!

"Nope, no bells are ringing," John muttered.

"Oh, come on, John. I know you do. You know. This was our first date!" she exclaimed, snuggling up to John.

John looked at Heather in disgust, wanting to shake her off him. He was beyond angry.

Sherlock was clutching onto his phone, face completely white. He was still trembling as he bit his thumb. He kept on glancing at the phone every now and then. He had obviously already read the text John had sent him. He knows this wasn't a fake, and he knows this was from John. Because he knew John, he knew exactly what John would say in a situation like this. And it appeared on the screen of his phone. After the coordinates, there was a message.

The message read:

I'm sorry, I should've known earlier. –JW

Sherlock inhaled shakily. He forced himself to breathe in and out, trying to level his breathing. He tried to shut down his mind, to calm himself down, but failed miserably. He looked out the window, noticing a roller coaster. He straightened himself up. They were there! This had to be the place. It looks like what his phone had shown him.

"Stop! Stop!" Sherlock called out.

The cabbie driver stopped abruptly, turning round to look at Sherlock. "What seems to be the problem now?" he asked, but Sherlock was already out the door. "HEY! You forgot to pay me!"

Sherlock cursed silently as he returned back to the cabbie driver. He fumbled in his coat, pulling out a wad of cash. Without even counting or asking for his fee, he threw the cash at the cabbie. "Keep it!" Sherlock exclaimed, as he marched towards the entrance of the carnival.

Sherlock noticed the crowd of people. Was she trying to let them escape so easily? What if…? No, there must be more to it than just that! Sherlock used the horde of people to his advantage, hiding and blending in within the crowd.

John was just about ready to make a fit in front of the crowd. He couldn't care less what Heather was saying, but she insisted on talking about their first date. Reminding him of the rides they went on and of the food they ate. He just didn't care, not anymore.

John looked around the crowd, deciding they were more interesting than Heather. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted him. He blinked several times, shaking his head. No, it-it couldn't be him. He just sent him the text message moments ago.

John carefully looked towards his right, making sure Heather didn't know where he was looking. It was! It had to be! Who else would wear a scarf in this kind of weather? A small smile crept on John's lips. He quickly jerked his head back, making sure Heather hadn't caught him looking somewhere. She was too busy, talking to John about the roller coaster. How he had convinced her to ride it since she was scared of doing so. John rolled his eyes, looking back at Sherlock.

He was gone! John scanned his eyes amongst the crowd, unable to find Sherlock. Damn it! Where had he gone off to? John looked back at Heather, noticing a figure hide in a tent. John narrowed his eyes, trying to see if he can make out the figure. There he was again, Sherlock! John smiled once more, beaming instantly. He repressed the urge to say his name, knowing Heather was beside him.

John turned his attention back to Heather, not daring to keep his eyes off of Sherlock. That's when he heard it, his name. John. John repressed the urge to laugh. It was barely audible but he heard it. John slowly turned round, locking eyes with Sherlock. "Sherlock," John mouthed, not uttered.

Sherlock smiled faintly at John.

John looked at Sherlock then sifted is eyes back to the jacket Heather was clutching. Sherlock followed John's eyes, noticing the jacket. That's where he saw it, the gun in her hands. He understood now. He understood perfectly well. Sherlock nodded slowly, as if telling John he understood.

John looked around, finding the perfect opportunity to escape. He noticed a horde of people storming their way towards them. John grasped Heather's arm, forcing her to walk into the crowd. Immediately, John used the chance to loosen her grip, removing himself from her. He ran from the crowd, bumping into Sherlock.

"Sher-Sherlock!" he uttered.

"John, we've got to go now!" Sherlock yelled, grabbing John's shoulders. Sherlock led the way, John following closely behind him.

The two stopped immediately, having heard a rumbling noise. They both looked around, seeing the crowd scatter about the carnival, screaming and shouting. There was Heather, gun in hand, firing at empty space. Once the crowd dispersed, she noticed Sherlock and John. She screamed angrily, lifting the gun in their direction.

The two men faced each other once more, quickly nodding their heads in agreement. Sherlock grasped John's arm, forcing John to run with him once more. They turned a corner just as Heather had shot two bullets. Sherlock and John ran as fast as they could, trying to lose Heather from pursuing them. Sherlock noticed a building and tugged on John's arm, making him move towards the building.

Once they entered the building, Sherlock closed the door behind them. They were both panting heavily, trying to catch their breaths. They looked at each other before they noticed their surroundings. They were in a mirrored room. There had to be thousands of mirrors in this place.

"Well," Sherlock said, "this could work to our advantage."


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

John ran around the endless mirrors, finally finding the second exit. He opened the door but it was locked from the outside. He groaned angrily, trying to break it down. But the door was made out of metal. Nonetheless, he tried again, desperately trying to break it down.

"Stop it, John!" Sherlock snapped, looking at him. "It won't do you any good and you'll just be wasting your energy."

John sighed silently, looking down at his feet. "We've got to do something, Sherlock," John answered. "We can't just stay cooped up in here. Hea- Jasmine will find us eventually."

Sherlock knew this was true, for a fact, but didn't let on. Instead, he had the same blank stare he always gave people. The only way for them to get out was the way they came in. Could he risk it? Just open the door and sneak a peek to see if Heather was nearby.

Suddenly, as if his question was answered, there came several poundings on the door. He took a step back in surprise and looked at John, narrowing his brows.

"Open the door and you won't die painfully!" shrieked Heather, as she kicked and pounded on the door.

Just then, a bullet pierced the door, whizzing past Sherlock by a few inches. He jumped backwards, moving away from the door. Sherlock looked around, his eyes scanning everything and everywhere. He tried to find a way out, anything at all.

John could feel his skin crawl, whitening instantly at the racket Heather was making. John gazed at Sherlock, eyes pleading. "Sher-Sherlock!" he whispered silently. "Come on, Sherlock, think of something quickly –"

"John, be patient," Sherlock said.

"You want me to be patient?" he demanded. "Sherlock, in case you haven't noticed, we're going to die if we don't leave this room! Come on, we don't have time –"

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed angrily, turning to look at John. "I need you to shut up! I need to think!"

John was taken by surprised by Sherlock's remark, but obeyed, not daring to say another word. Sherlock walked around, pacing the room silently. Then, he felt it. Well, no. He _heard_ it. Sherlock gazed below, staring down at the floorboards. He snapped his head up, staring at John with a look of relief.

"What?" John asked.

"Did you hear it?" he questioned.

John knitted his brows together, shaking his head. "Heard what?"

Sherlock stalked again, stepping again where he had stopped once more in demonstration. He looked back at John, whose smile began to broaden. John nodded his head quickly, relief coursing through him.

Sherlock pulled away at the fabric that lay on top of the wooden floorboards. He rolled the rug up, uncovering a secret door. He pulled open the latched, revealing stairs that led downstairs. Sherlock motioned for John to go in first while he grasped the rug once more.

John walked down the stairs, finding it difficult to see. He pulled out his phone, clicking on the 'flashlight' mode. Better, he thought. He had to hunch over, as the tunnel was small. He began walking, stopping to look behind him.

Sherlock had placed the rug over the door, closing it. He knew Heather was going to find it but he might buy them some time. Sherlock found John, thanks to the light coming off of his phone, and marched towards him, leading the way.

Just then, Heather had shot the door handle off, opening the door. She walked inside, eyes roaming over at the empty space. She groaned angrily, yelling out in frustration as she looked for Sherlock and then. She walked around, hollering their names.

John and Sherlock could hear her yells from where they were, only making them increase their pace. They walked hurriedly, both of them hunching. Sherlock was more uncomfortable than John since he was taller, drumming his hands at the top of the tunnel.

"Where does this tunnel lead up to?" John asked, turning to Sherlock.

"It leads up to the Ferris wheel," Sherlock said simply.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"When I was looking for you, as I trudged along the ground, the ground felt bumpy and hollow. It was obvious that grass had been plastered against the ground, poorly done though. Anyways, when I reached the Ferris wheel, I noticed some stairs beside it, just a couple of feet beside it, and no one was using it, not even the staff. So, I'm assuming, though it's highly likely, that it leads near the Ferris wheel."

John smiled, shaking his head in amazement. "I'm never going to get tired of your deductions," he praised.

Sherlock, still walking along, had a small smile on his face. "Now's not the time, John," he replied, trying to hide his content.

John rolled his eyes. But you like it, he thought.

Sherlock stopped walking immediately, causing John to slam into him. Before he could say anything, Sherlock hushed him, raising his hand in the air. "Do you hear that?" he asked softly.

John closed his mouth, waiting to hear something. He and Sherlock heard scuffles coming behind them. John stared at Sherlock and vice versa. It had to be her, they both thought.

"Run!" Sherlock exclaimed, running instantly, no matter how much it bothered him.

They both began running, trying to find the exit as quickly as possible. Who knows how far the exit was? As they turned a corner, they immediately were slammed against a door. The exit! Sherlock grabbed the handle, twisting it. No, it couldn't be, he thought. It wouldn't open. It was locked from the outside.

John stared at Sherlock; panic could be seen through his eyes. "Do something," he whispered hoarsely.

Sherlock analyzed the door, exhaling in relief. "It's made out of wood," he said. "That means we can break it down."

John seemed doubtful, but after hearing screams coming closer, he nodded his head quickly. Here goes nothing, he thought.

They both marched forward, pressing their bodies against the door. They backed off again, throwing themselves once more. This time, the door burst down, causing the men to fall onto the ground.

They landed on the floor, breathing heavily as they stumbled onto their feet. Sherlock grasped John's arm, pulling him to his feet. They began to run again, a bullet whizzing past them. Sherlock glanced behind, seeing Heather with the gun. Sherlock ducked, just in time, as Heather fired once more. John yelped, forcing Sherlock to run again.

Sherlock looked around, trying to find something that could help them. It was there when Sherlock saw the Ferris wheel. An incredibly insane idea had occurred to him. He hauled John along in the Ferris wheel's direction. There was a pod that was just about to be occupied by three passengers until Sherlock pushed them along, forcing John inside and slamming the door.

Ignoring the passengers' protests, Sherlock sprinted towards the machine, turning on the Ferris wheel and starting it. It slowly began to move. He watched as the pod that John was in moved along.

John, who was on the ground, rubbed his head slowly, wincing as he did so. That was a nasty throw, John thought. John stood the moment Sherlock started the Ferris wheel, causing John to stumble back onto the ground. He groaned as he slowly stood up. He looked through the window, seeing Sherlock standing on the ground, looking up at him. John placed his hands on the window, looking down at Sherlock, puzzled.

Sherlock looked at John, sad. Sherlock didn't have time to waste as Heather sped up to him. He ran once more, dodging Heather's bullets. Until he heard it, the click, he stopped running, smirking at her.

"All out of bullets?" he asked smugly.

Heather screamed at him, marching towards him. Sherlock quickly averted, running back towards the Ferris wheel. He saw his chance and jumped up, grasping the drive rim. He held on tightly, knowing that if he let go, he would fall. Haha, ironic, he thought. He clung onto the drive rim as it lifted him off the ground more. He could hear the shouts and screams echoing.

"Oh, no, you don't!" she exclaimed, grasping onto the drive rim as well. She almost slipped but held onto it tightly. She climbed up the other rims, trying to reach Sherlock.

Sherlock finally looked down, seeing Heather nearby. God, can't she just give up already? Sherlock groaned as he forced himself to climb upwards. He opened the side of a pod, making his way inside.

The passengers stared at him; all of them had taken several steps back. Sherlock looked at them, offering a forced smile as he fixed his outfit. "No need to be scared," he said. "Just inspecting the pods and they seem to be working well. Well, off I go."

Sherlock looked out the pod, jumping once more as he grasped another rim. He winced in pain as he felt the burn. But he didn't dare let go. He looked around; trying to find the pod that John was in. And then, he spotted it. John was below him to the left. But…he was closer to Heather. Damn it, Sherlock thought, as he headed towards John's direction.

John looked around, spotting Sherlock as he climbed near him. Is he insane?! John shook his head, opening the door for Sherlock. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed.

Ah, so he noticed me, Sherlock thought. He looked below him, seeing Heather climb up dangerously. Sherlock quickly made his way towards John, wincing as he did so. He mentally made a note to work out more. He noticed John extend a hand. Sherlock extended his hand out, barely touching John's fingertips. He was close. Sherlock inhaled deeply, struggling to move closer.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt pain coming from his leg, instantly letting go of the rim. But John had acted fast, grasping his hand and forcing him upwards. Sherlock looked below, seeing a knife jabbed into his calf. He winced as he forced himself upwards.

Heather clutched onto Sherlock's leg, forcing him down. Great, it was a tug of war battle. Sherlock screamed, feeling blood oozing out of his leg. This was not good, not good at all. He wobbled around, trying to shake Heather off. John ordered Sherlock to stop as it affected him as well. Finally, John had managed to get Sherlock on by mid waist.

Heather bit Sherlock, causing him to impulsively kick at her. By doing so, Heather instantly let go, falling. Had she not grabbed the rim, she would've fallen. John hauled Sherlock up, both breathing heavily. They noticed Heather, struggling on the rim.

"We have to help her, Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock looked at John as if he was mad. "What?" he exclaimed.

"Sherlock!" John answered.

"Fine!" Sherlock replied.

John nodded, extending an arm out to Heather. "Take my hand!" he yelled.

Heather knitted her brows at him, hesitating.

"Come on or you're going to fall!" John explained.

Hesitantly, she reached a hand over, clutching onto John's. But as the wheel turned, her other hand slipped. John winced as he felt the weight of Heather's body. He pulled back, trying to help her in.

"Give me your other hand!" John exclaimed.

Heather shook her head quickly. "No, John," she murmured.

"What do you mean no?" he asked.

"John, what I said to you, I lied. It started out like that, John. I hated you but…I eventually fell in love with you. And-and I lied because I knew you'd hate me if you ever found out what I was doing!" she explained.

John stared at her in confusion. "Why-why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"Because I don't want to have a guilty conscious before I go," she mumbled softly.

"What? Heather, what are you trying to say? What do you mean –"

But Heather had jabbed John's arm with a knife, forcing him to let go of her. His eyes widened instantly, tears forming on his face. He nearly jumped out had it not been for Sherlock stopping him. John buried his face in Sherlock's chest, sobbing.


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

John was seated on the sofa, trembling in his seat. He was balled up where he was, a blanket thrown over him. Sherlock had placed the blanket on John, thinking John's shivering would relax. But, he was obviously wrong.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, fixing John tea. He wanted to soothe his nerves, knowing John was in a state of shock. Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing softly as he remembered what had happened earlier.

The moment their pod came to ground, John had sprinted out the door, regardless of the fact that the Ferris wheel of still moving. John had pushed his way through the crowd, trying to get to Heather. Heather was dead, obviously. Sherlock had to force John away from the crowd, telling him they couldn't be risked seen here.

John wouldn't dare talk to him, deeply upset with Sherlock. He had even blamed him for all of his misfortune. But… deep inside, John knew Sherlock couldn't be blamed for this. _He_ couldn't blame him. John winced at the thought, continuing to tremble.

Sherlock had offered John some comfort, but John refused any, forcing Sherlock away from him. He even smacked his hand away when he grabbed his hand. Sherlock looked down at his hand, seeing the red marks to prove it. He silently rubbed his hand as he stole a glance towards John.

The kettle began to screech, snapping Sherlock back into reality. He grabbed two mugs, pouring water in both of the mugs. Sherlock prepared the teas, slowly advancing his way towards John. Sherlock silently placed John's drink on the coffee table. Sherlock sat in his regular armchair, staring at John while he silently drank his tea.

When he noticed John made no movement to grab his mug, he answered, "John… please, drink it. It'll make you feel be–"

"I don't want to! I can't when – when – Just leave me alone, Sherlock!" John snapped back, staring at Sherlock briefly before averting his gaze.

Sherlock exhaled bitterly, unsure what he should do to help John. In that moment, Sherlock saw every emotion John was feeling in his eyes. Sherlock stared down at his mug, gripping onto it. He placed his tea on the coffee table, knowing he wasn't going to be drinking it anytime soon. Sherlock looked at John, who refused to look at him.

Sherlock rose from his armchair, striding his way towards John. Sherlock sat beside him, distance between them. Sherlock waited, trying not to push John any further. When he noticed John didn't protest to him sitting next to him, Sherlock sat closer to John. He waited once more. When nothing happened again, he placed an arm across John's shoulder, pulling John to him. Sherlock felt John tremble beneath him, obviously still shaken.

Sherlock exhaled. He pulled John closer until his mouth was near John's ear. He whispered in John's ear, "John, I know it hurts. I know how it feels. Please, don't ask me how or why, but I know." Sherlock paused briefly before he continued. "And I know you're still in love with her, Heather. But…Heather, she wouldn't want you to be like this. She would've wanted you to move on and be happy. I think that's why she told you the truth, John. It may have been too late for her, but it wasn't too late for you. You still had the chance to make something better with yourself."

John stopped trembling as Sherlock's explanation neared to an end. He glanced at Sherlock, eyes looking like they were in the brink of tears. John gave Sherlock a small smile, nodding his head slowly. He replied, "Sherlock, it's true I still have some affection for her. But –" John closed his eyes. The words he had always denied and cowered away from finally revealing the truth. "– I'm in love with you, only you. I have been. And the fall, made me realized it."

Sherlock looked down at John, smiling faintly at him. Sherlock's arms trailed down to John's side, pulling him closer to him. He gripped onto John tightly, not wanting to let go of him. The words he had always wanted to hear reverberated throughout the flat.

"John, look at me," Sherlock said softly, trying to force John's eyes opened.

John opened his eyes, hesitantly, looking into Sherlock's eyes.

"John, I feel the same about you," he answered. "I…l-love you." He stammered those foreign words known to him.

John continued to gaze at Sherlock, grinning widely. "I already knew," he said.

Sherlock sighed in relief, feeling himself flushed and embarrassed. So, John had finally caught on? Sherlock glimpsed at John, seeing him stare at him. But, he wasn't staring at his eyes. He was staring in one specific spot. His mouth, lips. Sherlock found himself staring at John's mouth as well.

John had placed his arms around Sherlock's nape, pulling Sherlock closer to him. They both leaned in, their lips mere centimeters apart, their breaths hitting their faces.

But, unfortunately, Sherlock's phone rang, causing Sherlock to jerk away from John. "Sorry, I'm sorry," Sherlock apologized, as he reached for his mobile.

Sherlock cast John one last glance before he answered the phone.

A black car had approached and stopped on top of a hill. Two people had exited the vehicle. It was none other than Anthea and Mycroft. Mycroft had his umbrella in hand while Anthea was holding a laptop.

"Sir?" she questioned, casting Mycroft a puzzled glance.

"Hmm?" Mycroft asked, as he stared at a building.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Anthea replied, looking back down at the laptop that was open.

"Positive," he said. "I've been tracking this building for a month now, and I'm absolutely positive that this is their hideout." He chuckled, grinning when he finished.

"Sir," Anthea said, checking her laptop, "Ten people are in the building from what the system's detected."

A smirk tugged on Mycroft's lips. "That's all of them."

"On your word," she answered.

There was silence for a few moments, wind being the only thing breaking the silence. "Go ahead," he whispered silently, leaning on his umbrella.

Anthea nodded, looking down at the laptop. Her fingers trailed through the keyboard until it landed on the enter button. She pressed down onto the button.

The moment Anthea pressed the button; an explosion had erupted inside from the building. Instantly, screams and shouts were heard, but they quickly died down seconds later. Windows had shattered and bricks were thrown throughout the land.

"Sir, there seems to be no sign of life anymore," she said, looking up from the laptop.

Mycroft was looking at the scene, fire in his eyes from the eruption. He was silent before he nodded his head as his response. He turned to look at Anthea, giving her a faint smile. Mycroft pulled something out from his pocket, dialing the only number he'd dial.

A few rings before he heard a clicking sound. Then there came, "What do you want now, Mycroft?"

Mycroft continued to grin, tsking at his brother's behavior. Typical, he thought. "Now, now, brother, is this the thanks I get for eliminating all further enemies that cross your path?" Mycroft replied back with a sneer.

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise as he continued to hear Mycroft's explanation, heart racing. He turned to face John, jumping up in giddy as he ended the phone.

John glanced at Sherlock, furrowing his brows at him. John rose from the sofa, looking at Sherlock, puzzled. "Sherlock, what happened?" he asked.

"John, it's over!" Sherlock exclaimed, hands flailing to demonstrate.

"What is?" he questioned.

"I'm free, John, that's what happened! And-and I can finally come out from hiding. We don't have to pretend anymore. It can be just like it was before!" Sherlock explained. "Mycroft, he took care of the remaining minions of Moriarty. Sebastian Moran is dead, all of them! John, don't you see what just happened?" Sherlock rushed over to John, briefly twirling him around in glee.

John regained his balance at having been twirled around. He looked at Sherlock, grinning from ear to ear. He couldn't believe it was finally over. He felt like there should be more, but…it's over.

Sherlock stopped pacing the room happily, turning around to face John. "John, you can ask me anything you've been meaning to ask me. Now is the perfect time to find out everything!" Sherlock answered. "Oh! Want to know how I did it?" he asked John. Without expecting an answer, Sherlock continued, "Okay, John, I asked you to only look at me, remember? Well, the whole point because of that was because there was –"

When Sherlock had spoken, John rushed towards Sherlock's side, planting a kiss on his lips. The kiss quickly ended and John gazed into Sherlock's eyes, who looked deeply flushed and at a loss of words.

"Sherlock, frankly, I don't give a damn right now. I don't care right now, not now. We have all the time in the world to find that out," John replied.

This time, John kissed Sherlock once more, arms holding Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock was hesitant for a moment before he slid his hands onto John's waist, holding them there.

It truly was over.

But, a new journey was beginning.

A/N: I'm sorry, I ended the story when there was so much more to reveal. But, I actually prefer it this way. Anyways, next week, I will be updating on my new story/fanfic. It is going to be a Pirate!lock, which – I guarantee – will be much better than this one. I hope you'll follow me with my next story as you did with this one. And I hope you enjoyed this story.


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